


a manner of virtue

by neonheartbeat



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Tarzan - All Media Types
Genre: Africa, Alpha Ben Solo, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Tarzan Fusion, Animal Death, Animal Instincts, Armitage Hux is a Jerk, Botany, British Empire, Childbirth, Deutsch | German, Edwardian Period, F/M, Gen, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Omega Rey (Star Wars), Period Typical Attitudes, Religion, Scent Marking, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-03-09 14:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18919141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/neonheartbeat
Summary: Miss R. NiimaOxford UniversityDepartment of BotanyMadam—It brings me great pleasure to inform you that your application to the College for a journey to the Gold Coast of Africa has passed its Trials and you shall therefore be seen by the Board of Directors at ten o'clock sharp Friday morning, the 10th of this month. I shall not need to remind you that this is an Unprecedented Occasion—act accordingly.Yours respectfully,Dr. G. Phasma





	1. Miss Niima

 

 

Miss Rey Niima sat very upright in her seat before the Board of Directors of the Zoology Department of Oxford, taking care to keep her gloved hands clasped demurely in her lap. She did not intend to make a bad impression, but even her new day-dress of sober gray silk seemed too frivolous to imagine among the robed and suited Directors looking at her over their long table, their beard and mustaches well-trimmed, their eyeglasses reflecting light from the windows behind her.

One woman sat on the other side of the table with the Directors, facing Miss Niima: this was Gwendoline Phasma, the only female Doctor of Zoology in the entire College. Her blond curls and wide blue eyes looked as cherubic as a Rubens, and entirely out of place when juxtaposed with her rough face, crooked soft mouth, enormous stature, and broad shoulders: Rey knew as surely as if she'd looked at the woman's boarding-school papers what her Designation was, even if her position on the Board was not enough to give it away. Besides that, the woman's scent filled the room: a subtly floral flavor that filled Rey's nose and made her want to sneeze.

"Miss Niima," said the Director of Botany, looking over his spectacles at her. "You have presented an application for a loan from the College to journey to the Gold Coast of Africa, in order to catalog the various exotic flora and fauna there: is this correct?"

"It is, sir." Rey took care to make her voice come across firm and smooth: there could be not a single step here wrong.

"You were top of your classes in every course you pursued: I would consider it an insult to your intellect to make clear the situation politically in Africa at the moment."

"I am aware of the situation, Director, yes."

He sighed a little and looked back at her papers. "There are tensions, you see, at the moment: tensions with the natives. Britain has incorporated the entire Coast under her protectorate, and the Ashanti are…unhappy. They are subdued, of course, but unhappy. The very last thing the College wants is to send a promising young… _mind_ … off to a dangerous part of the world."

Rey felt very annoyed and did her best to hide it. "If I may, sir: last month you approved Mr. Dameron's request for a grant to travel to the Congo, and the area is not even British—it is Belgian-ruled, and far more dangerous."

The Director of Horticultural Science cleared his throat, and the Director of Botany looked back down at Rey as if it pained him. "Miss Niima, Mr. Dameron is a young man. A young man who…does not share certain _traits_ with yourself, the traits I speak of being a disadvantage when one travels through parts unknown and may come into contact with any number of savage peoples."

There was no disgust or condescension in his voice, only pity, and Rey thought she might have preferred disgust. Her cheeks flamed in spite of her efforts. "Nevertheless," she pressed, "you must then allow that it is not my _mind_ you are preoccupied with keeping safely away from the field."

"Please, Miss Niima," said the Director of Horticultural Science, "you are verging on vulgarity, and vulgarity is unbecoming of you."

Next to him, Dr. Phasma's left eye twitched, and her nostrils flared so as to suggest some suppressed emotion, just beneath the surface of her expression. "I suggest," she said sharply, and every head turned to pay attention, "that we leave being becoming or being unbecoming out of the question of a scientific exploration: I do not believe I remember any of you gentlemen informing Mr. Dameron that being vulgar was _unbecoming_ , and he had considerably worse scores in his papers than Miss Niima ever did."

Several coughs and shuffling shoes echoed for a moment as Rey nodded at Dr. Phasma, with the small expression that women use often to silently convey gratitude and solidarity. Dr. Phasma returned it with an inclination of her head.

"We shall return to Miss Niima." The Director of Botany looked back down. "You attended Saint Agatha's School for Girls, yes?"

"I did." Ah, Saint Agatha. She had gone directly from the orphanage to that venerable institute, aged thirteen. Rey could vividly remember the smell of the grass, the rain on the air: the ancient stone walls and the enormous Greek letter **Ω** carved over the lintel in a marble keystone—the same letter carved over every doorway to the dormitories, every door to the classrooms.

Bloody Saint Agatha. Rey thought she might scream if she had to hear the name or the story again; a sweet young virgin of _a particular designation_ who dedicated herself so wholly to God that when a wealthy and powerful man desired her and tortured her when she would not go to him, she died a martyr rather than allow herself to be sullied. Sweet Saint Agatha and her stupid breasts, cut off and offered on her stupid plate. Rey ascribed her slender figure to the loss of appetite inflicted every time she went into the dining hall and had to stare at that painting on the wall. The nuns had never outright said whether Quintianus was an **Α** , but the implication was clear enough, unless you had half a brain. Keep yourself apart, keep yourself pure, keep your wits, and one day you will please God by bearing many healthy children as He intended. As if the nuns knew a whit of what either being **Ω** , or bearing children was like, most of them were designated **B** and therefore perfectly unbothered by any such nonsense for the former, and being a nun exempted them from the latter.

Rey had been lucky. She had never experienced the witless _estrus_ of her dormitory-mates, only slight discomfort and a distracted mind just before her courses began, and at age 16 she had been taken into the physician's office, accompanied by Sister Miriam, and informed very clinically that it appeared she was one of the lucky half of the girls: _nuditate_ , delayed womanhood, unable to ever cycle into a real _estrus_ unless she was exposed to a specific, as-yet-unknown **A**. Herodotus had written about it, he had said, in his earliest works on the mating designations of mankind, and the **A** himself, until being exposed to her, would never enter into—

"Isn't that wonderful?" Sister Miriam had interrupted, beaming. "That means there is someone very special that God has designed just for you, Miss Niima."

Rey had not given a fig about meeting anyone very special, and had only asked if the doctor was very sure she would not have any real _estrus_ , and could she perhaps attend university now that she did not pose a threat to other designations? Yes, he had said, as long as you keep this handy, and had prescribed her a bottle of syrup. Mark your courses, he told her, and take a spoonful every day the week before, and in the event you are exposed to the particular man, it will dull your senses and buy you time to get away privately.

Sister Miriam looked at the bottle suspiciously and had piously wondered aloud if perhaps Nature should not be allowed to take its course as God intended, and Rey had said hotly that perhaps Sister Miriam should go about bare-back on a horse, since saddles surely were not what God intended, and see how she liked it, and for that Rey had been whipped across the hand with a ruler once they had returned to Saint Agatha's and sent to bed without any dinner.

She had looked at the bottle. _Doctor Aristotle Agnew's Anti-Aphrodisiac,_ it said on the paper label. It was almost pure laudanum, promising quick relief "for fertility symptoms". _Dosed to the gills and out of my mind, more like_ , she had thought, and left it unopened on her shelf.

She had, however, brought it when she arrived at Oxford, in the event it might be needed, of course: the memory of her friend Jess wailing and moaning in the bed beside her in a drawn-out sing-song cadence with her hands and feet strapped to the bed-posts haunted her dreams. _Hands and feet tied down to prevent you from harming yourself_ , the nuns had said sternly. They had gagged some of the girls, too. Jess had cried of shame when she recovered from it, every time, lying in a sodden pool of sweat and other awful things on her thin mattress. Rey had felt relieved that it wasn't her, but a little guilty all the same. Perhaps opium _would_ have helped her to get through it…

No good thinking of that now, however: the Director was still talking. "I have an envelope here with your medical records, Miss Niima. May I open it in front of this august body?"

_No going back now._ The pure hypocrisy of claiming she was being vulgar when they were about to go through her private medical records made Rey want to scream. She nodded. "You may."

The Director opened the envelope with his little knife, and peered at the papers, poring over each sheet. His eyebrows rose above the rims of his spectacles. "I see you are, perhaps, not in as much danger as I feared. Do I understand correctly—and please know I am using only the medical terminology, so as not to shock or embarrass you, Miss Niima—you are, in fact, a _nuditate,_ or what they sometimes call an, ah, _omega opportunus?_

She must have heard someone say the word aloud before, but she could not remember a time where she had been more mortified. "I am, sir."

"Well," said the Director of Horticultural Science, "that puts quite a different light on things."

"Indeed," said the Director of Botany. "Modern science tells us your sort might go a lifetime without… being in an indelicate or vulnerable position, and what's more, according to de Gobineau, you shan't be sent into a state by any sort of man you might meet in the Continent: Europeans and Africans simply are not designation-compatible any more than a dog and a bear might be."

"I am aware," said Rey, through her teeth, "of the works of Monsieur de Gobineau." Privately she thought him a doddering old fool and a bigot to boot: if different plants could be grafted to each other and flower, there was no reason why human beings ought to not have the same results.

"My dear Director," said a quavering voice from down the table, "are you really considering sending this vulnerable flower of Christendom to be trampled underfoot in Deepest Africa?"

Rey swallowed a groan and looked down the table at the Bishop of Oxford, sitting there near the window in his vestments and looking placidly pious. _Why on earth does he have to sign off on every little grant and loan?_ But she knew very well why: the Church was not keen on allowing any sort of frivolous academia to get in the way of their power, and so all must scrape and bow and prostrate to the Bishop to get their grant.

"Do you object, Bishop?" asked Dr. Phasma.

"I do," he said, nodding. "This young woman would be better served as God intended her to serve: by marrying and bearing children. I do not, of course, hold you, my dear Doctor Phasma, to the same standard: God made you like unto a man, and so naturally with men is where He intended you to serve; but this Miss Niima—how old are you, my dear?"

"Nineteen," said Rey, keeping her face still. Dr. Phasma looked as if she might blow a gasket.

The Bishop sighed. " _Nineteen_. Nineteen, and unmarried, and in my opinion the _nuditate_ are as unstable as nitroglycerine, ready to explode at a moment's notice. After she comes into her womanhood, she will be like any other woman of her designation. Her mind will be wholly overrun with the concerns of childbearing and raising children. Does not Saint Paul tell us that the married woman's concerns are for her husband and how she may please him? Why indulge this fantasy? Give the money to a young woman of a different sort—or better yet, a young man, and let them go out into the wilderness. Miss Niima belongs here in England, with whatever young man God has made for her to wed, and may they have many healthy children for the nation." He sat back as if he expected applause, but none was forthcoming from the table.

"Bishop," said Rey, blood pounding in her ears, "I am familiar with the Bible: all of the Bible, after all, I attended a school where we had to read it cover to cover every year. Pray indulge me. In the book of Revelation, what does Our Lord say in chapter twenty-two, verse thirteen?" Parroting piety with as much sincerity as possible was a particular skill of hers: it had saved her from many a whipping with the ruler at Saint Agatha's.

The Bishop cast about in his mind for a moment, and went very red in the face as he was forced to stammer out, "Revelation twenty-two, thirteen. 'I am…Alpha…and…Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.'"

Rey felt a stab of pleasure at making the old man cringe. "Yes. Thank you. And Matthew, chapter twenty, verse sixteen?"

"'So the last shall be first, and the first last: for many be called, but few chosen.'"

"Indeed. If I may venture to preach to the Bishop for a moment—" this got a few chuckles from the table, and Dr. Phasma leaned forward with interest—"God Himself states that He is both Alpha and Omega, first and last, and that the last shall be first and the first shall be last. If you like: that Omega shall be Alpha and Alpha shall be Omega. I will not venture to defy the words of God and prevent the _last_ from being _first_ , or the _first_ from being _last_. If we are all made in the image of God, we cannot say to one man, go, and to another, stay. We must treat all men and women equally, as every one of us is made in His image. I was given the gift of delayed womanhood and a second gift of academic talent, and I believe I would be sinning if I squandered these talents from God to pursue a way that someone else thought was best for me."

Silence fell over the room. The Bishop opened his mouth, shut it again, and sat back in his chair, and Dr. Phasma took advantage of his shock to address the table. "I believe we might come to an agreement, then," she said coolly.

*

"How did it go?" asked Poe Dameron, rising from his seat on the bench outside the hall as Rey rushed out.

"Horribly. Only Doctor Phasma and the Director of Horticultural Science thought I should be given the money to go." Rey fumbled for her handkerchief and could not find it, her voice thick with tears. "Almost a unanimous vote of no. I've never been so ashamed in all my life."

"Come now, cheer up," said Dameron, handing her his own clean handkerchief. "Write another paper and try again next year."

"Oh, you don't understand," Rey said, tears welling up again. "By then all the rare specimens might be _gone_ ; I know what industry does to forested habitats. I'm so angry I could just spit."

"Best not do it in front of the Directors, then," Dameron said, and consolingly patted her shoulder. "Cheer up. I had to work for five years to get my grant; they thought it was a waste of time to send a South American immigrant with a doctorate in linguistics out to the Congo to gather up the native tongues like so many grapes in a basket; yet here I am now, eh? "

"Oooh, they don't care about anything but _politics_ and money," said Rey, hands trembling. "I'm afraid I'm going to tear your hanky all to pieces—"

The sweet scent of roses and jasmine suddenly filled Rey's nose. "Miss Niima," said a low, female voice, and Rey turned in shock to see Dr. Phasma, imposing and enormous, standing awkwardly in the hallway with an envelope in her hands. "I trust I am not interrupting you?"

"No," said Dameron genially, "not at all, Doctor."

Phasma approached as if Rey was a suspicious insect. "Here," she said, and handed Rey the envelope.

Rey took it and opened it, gasping in consternation when she saw the amount of money inside. "What—what on earth—Doctor!"

"I know," said Phasma defensively, "it's not nearly enough for a full expedition, but it'll get you from here to Accra and back again, with some to spare."

"It's two hundred pounds," said Rey, who had never held that much money in her life, and felt rather faint. "It's more than I asked for—how did you get them to—"

"Bullied 'em to within an inch of their lives," said Phasma. "Used my best A-voice: that sorry pack of B's—no offense to you, Dameron—were practically stumbling over themselves to do anything I wanted." She leaned closer. "Between you and I, Miss Niima, I just wanted to see the Bishop wet his vestments."

Rey laughed aloud and clapped a hand over her mouth. "And did he?" she asked, feeling wicked.

"Couldn't tell, what with all the black," Phasma said, grinning. "Now you run off quick as you like to the offices and get yourself a ticket before they come to their senses and sack me."

"You're an absolute brick," said Rey sincerely, and held out her hand. Phasma shook it. "I'll send you a lump of gold from the Coast."

The entire way to the travel offices, Dameron in tow, all Rey could think was: _I'm going to Africa! I'm really, truly going!_

The ticket was purchased to Accra, the same steamer carrying Dameron to the Congo would anchor there first: she must go and pack her plant-presses and her sketchbook and paints, her notebooks and her pencils and easels and clothes—she must get something suitable for the climate, she must get decent shoes for once: she was going to Africa, and her life would surely be changed forever.


	2. Arrival in Africa

Accra was much, much warmer and brighter than Rey had imagined. She got off the gangplank after bidding Dameron a fond farewell and screened her smarting eyes with her hand, glad to finally be on solid ground again for once in her life. Her light poplin dress had already stuck to her arms and back with sweat, and the breeze was not much of a relief: thank goodness for her hat, which at least gave some shade. One could hardly tell it was early March at all.

"Miss Niima!" called a voice, and she turned to see a portly gentleman with a moustache in a white linen suit. "Oxford, yes?"

"Yes, that's me," she called back, and hurried over. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr…?"

"Williams: I'm the Port Director, how do you do?" He shook her hand. "All your bags off?"

"Oh, yes. I haven't got very many things at all, but I think they're all in that crate there—"

"We will have it packed onto the train quick as you like." He smiled. "Won't you come in out of the sun? I'll have my man fetch you a drink."

"Thank you, sir, you're very kind." Rey eagerly accepted his arm and they went up the street until they reached a fine, white-painted stone building, into which she was directed, and blessed coolness swept across her face as she stepped into the lofty-ceilinged room.

"Kwame John?" said Williams, and a small-statured man with skin blacker than Rey had ever seen stepped forward to pour her a glass of squash. She took it gratefully and smiled at him, and he nodded, then stepped back against the wall. The squash was delicious: tart and cold.

"I should like to know the best places for finding rare plants and possibly small insects, if it's not too much trouble," she said, looking back over at Williams.

"Oh, you'll want deep jungle for that," he said, sitting down with a glass of water. Sweat was beading on his forehead. "There's a friendly village of Ashanti—well, I say friendly: they don't much care for men in uniforms—anyway, that's about forty miles into the interior, so we shall put you on the train and get you as close as we can, send a guide with you, and get you settled."

"Wonderful," said Rey, setting down her empty glass. "I won't be much trouble, I hope."

"Not at all. Oh, here he is now—" Williams gestured, and another African came in through the door, dressed for the weather in a light gray linen walking-suit, nodding politely at Rey. He did not look extremely pleased to be there, but his face was good-natured, and Rey was determined to make a good impression.

"Hello," she said, smiling. "What's your name?"

He tilted his head. "You probably couldn't pronounce it, miss," he said in perfect Received Pronunciation English. Rey went very pink and looked down.

Williams laughed. "We call him Finlay, Miss Niima. He's one of the best guides and interpreters we have. Studied in London, if you can believe it: all the way from Nigeria to London and back to the Continent again!"

"I—is Nigeria very far from here?" asked Rey, trying to recoup after her embarrassment.

"I'd say a couple thousand miles," said Finlay politely. "Mr. Williams, the crates have been loaded onto the train."

"Good, good. Well, you oughtn't to wait around. Phasma told me you must be in and out, quick as you please." Williams stood, and Rey followed suit, shaking his hand. "Sleep on the train if you can: that's my advice to you. Good day, Miss Niima, and good luck."

"Thank you," she said sincerely, and then it was back out again into the blazing heat and following Finlay's broad back up into the passenger train, finding a seat on the plush blue velvet bench facing the windows, and plucking the soaked collar of her dress away from her skin as unobtrusively as possible. Finlay sat on the opposite bench.

"The village," she said, hesitant to press him. "Have you been there before?"

"Yes," he said, dark eyes flicking up to hers. "It's a good place. They'll like you, so don't worry."

"Because I'm not a soldier?"

"Because you're a woman," he said simply. "The Ashanti are matrilineal. Women are more important. And if my nose does not deceive me, they'll like you even more for being the sort of woman you are."

"I don't know what you mean," Rey said, clasping her hands in her lap.

"Yes, you do," he said, and grinned, showing white teeth. "Don't worry. I'm not the sort of man who will be a nightmare for you. Perfectly safe. No, don't bother trying to mop up your neck—" for Rey had got out her hanky and immediately set to work— "they'll want to smell you when you arrive."

" _Smell_ me? Whatever for?"

"To make sure you're… you know," he said, rolling his eyes. "Big letter O. Very valued, very respected in the tribes."

"That's more than England can say," said Rey. "Do they value O's in Nigeria, too?"

Finlay's face fell a little. "Women O's, yes. Not so much men."

"Oh, surely they're so rare," Rey said. "Why even in England the rate is something like one in every ten thousand."

"Not so rare as all that," said Finlay. "I had a brother who was, and he was driven out of the town."

"I'm sorry to hear it," she told him. "How very unfair."

The train started up, and lurched forward with a mighty jerk, nearly sending them both tumbling as it groaned and wailed and began to inch off toward the thick foliage surrounding the north of the city. "British manufacturing," Finlay said, grinning. "Love it, yes?"

Rey smiled back at him. "I will say the only thing we do well is tea, and even that I believe we took from China."

Finlay's eyes went wide and he burst into laughter. "Ah, you are a political cynic," he teased. "I think we will enjoy this ride, Miss Rey Niima."

"If it's not offensive, I do want to know—" His eyes narrowed, and she very quickly added, "what your name is? Your true name, I mean. I had a linguist friend at Oxford and he's always collecting names and bits, and he'll have a go at me if I don't gather as many names as I can."

"Igitioluwotilaiye," said Finlay, and Rey almost choked.

"Igi—"

He went a bit slower for her benefit. "Igi-tio-lu-wo-til-ai-ye."

She tried it again. "Igiti-tioluwo—I'm so sorry—"

"No, you were close. Til-ai-ye."

"Igitioluwotilaiye!"

"Ha!" he said, and grinned. "Don't try it again, Miss Rey Niima. White people's tongues are soft and turn into knots if they try any name harder to say than 'John Smith'."

She covered her face, laughing. "I am sure it has a lovely meaning. Oh, it's worse than when I tried to say Tchaikovsky and didn't know the T was silent in front of my whole class."

"The tree of God is rooted and strong," said Finlay, looking thoughtful. "Don't worry. You'll have an easier time with the Twi."

It was not until several minutes later that she realized he had told her the meaning of his name.

*

After disembarking at a station hours later and walking a well-worn path with everything Rey had brought either carried or strapped to their backs, Rey Niima and Finlay arrived in the village tired and hot in the late golden afternoon. The warm buzz of a thousand strange insects filled Rey's ears; a hundred different plants grew all around her, some in blossom and some not; the grasses cut at her hands and gown and sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She had never been more excited in her life.

"Ah, here we are," said Finlay, gesturing to the cluster of huts before them. Rey wanted nothing so much as to draw them. They were round with walls of stacked grasses or firmly packed mud, with round grass roofs that sloped up toward a curved point, and the people were dressed in blousy, billowing shirts, wrapped skirts of beautiful yellow and green patterned cloth, and head-scarves: some went without clothing on their upper bodies, men and women, and she hastily averted her eyes out of embarrassment. A woman of perhaps thirty years with skin as rich as the earth under their feet stepped forward, looking at Rey with some unidentifiable expression. She said something to Finlay, and he turned to Rey. "This is Ama Yaa. She wishes to know what your purpose here is."

"Ah—botany," said Rey, flustered, and not knowing whether to look at Ama Yaa or at Finlay. "Is that—translatable, or shall I—" She put down her case and wiped her brow.

Finlay turned back to Ama Yaa and spoke in the same vowel-heavy language, a beautiful string of round syllables and complex sounds Rey was sure she could never make. Ama Yaa considered and spoke again, her voice low and authoritative. "She wishes to look at you."

"Oh—all right." Rey held her arms away from her sides, aware she must be simply reeking with sweat and looking a disaster: certainly not the first impression she had hoped to make. Her dress was filthy about the hem, her hair stuck half to her neck, and her hat had slipped a little, tilting off her head.

Ama Yaa came closer and circled Rey, peering at her this way and that as the other women gathered and looked on with interest. She said something that sounded like a question, and the gathered women laughed. Rey smiled uneasily, unsure what the joke was, and Ama Yaa's hand flickered out and gently touched the curve of Rey's right breast, not rudely or crudely, but as if to reassure herself that Rey was, indeed, a female.

"She only asked if we thought you were a woman under all those clothes," Finlay said under his breath. "She's the A, she's in charge of the village." That was as obvious as anything: the woman's scent was like tilled earth and brandy and cocoa, deeply dark and sweet. Funny, thought Rey, that great big Phasma should smell like a garden while this woman, who barely reached Rey's eyes in height, smelled almost like a man. _Just goes to show you can't trust a scent, I suppose._

Ama Yaa stepped back, smiling. " _Yere_ ," she said, and repeated it louder, then rattled off another string of syllables to Finlay before touching her belly and extending her hand to Rey in some gesture Rey did not understand.

"She's just confirmed your designation— _wife-woman_ , is the word. Touch your belly like she did and meet her hand."

Rey did as he told, feeling as out of place as if she had just landed on Mars or the moon, and her fingers touched Ama Yaa's: they looked very pale and sad, like bleached bone next to that deep, opulent brown of good earth.

Ama Yaa beamed and leaned forward, kissing her on the mouth with a smack that startled Rey and made the other woman laugh uproariously, then shouted something at Finlay before pulling Rey along by the arm as cheerfully as if they had known each other all their lives. "Finlay! Help!" gasped Rey, entirely unaccustomed to any such behavior. The other women wrested her things off Finlay's back and from the ground, following with laughter and jokes in their own tongue.

"She's only showing you where you'll sleep," Finlay called, a laugh in his voice. "Don't panic!"

Rey made her sore feet hurry faster and rounded the corner of the packed-earth road to see—a _house,_ a cabin of sorts, with wood walls and a makeshift porch. "What—" she gasped, stunned.

Ama Yaa nodded, and Finlay translated as he hurried to their sides, puffing slightly. "She says it was built fifteen or so years back for a missionary man from America, and they kept it in case he returned, but he never did. She hopes it pleases you."

"It's perfect!" Rey clasped her hands together and turned to Ama Yaa. "Thank you!"

Finlay and Ama Yaa quickly went back and forth, speaking quickly, and Finlay looked up at Rey. "Your things will be put inside, and you can arrange them as you will. You are a guest: welcome to the food they have, and water. I will stay for a week to make sure you are taken care of, and after that I go back to Accra."

"That's absolutely all right," said Rey, already distracted by the beautiful wildflowers growing up about the raised porch. "Can I—I am sorry, my press is in the bag, and my notebooks are—where are my notebooks? I put them in my valise…"

*

The evening fell, dim and violet. Cool wind from the open plains drifted across the village, and Rey sat down on the ground beside Ama Yaa, who had insisted, and took a bowl of mashed vegetables, roots, and grain, eating with her fingers like everyone else.

How perfectly at ease she felt! A month ago she would never have dreamed of sitting in the dirt in a filthy dress, eating with her hands and talking with her mouth full, yet here she sat under a different sky, listening to the strange insects buzzing in the trees and the strange language of another people clustered around a fire.

One man stood—a boy, really, maybe fourteen, slight and small—and took a bowl of food, bowing slightly at Ama Yaa before walking down the road and away from the villagers, weaving down into the dusk.

"Where is he going?" asked Rey. She had decided to look at Ama Yaa and not Finlay, as it was likely more polite to look at the people you were actually speaking to. Finlay translated, and Ama Yaa set her chin slightly, smiling at Rey as she responded.

"Ama Yaa says Kwabena Nyobe is going to the edge of the village to make an—offering, I think, to a thing in the jungle."

Chills prickled up the back of Rey's neck. "A thing in the jungle?"

Finlay asked again, and Ama Yaa clarified, nodding and using hand gestures. "Yes, a white thing. I do not know what the word is—a spirit that is living."

"What?" Rey, fascinated, pulled out her ever-present notebook. "A living spirit? You mean like a—a deity?"

Finlay shook his head. "No, no. The Ashanti's goddess is Asase, mother of the earth, mate of Nyame. Not a deity." He asked Ama Yaa a question again, and she spread her hands wide, speaking slowly and considering her words. He asked again, probing, eyes narrowed in concentration, and they went back and forth for a bit, the other villagers looking on in interest as Rey quickly noted down _Asase mother earth goddess Nyame god_ in her book.

Finally, Finlay looked back at Rey. "I asked her if it was a man, like me, and she said no, it is not a man like you. I asked if it was a man like the English, and she said no, it is not an Englishman. I asked if it was a woman like her, or like you, and she said no, it is not a woman like her or like you. I asked if it was an animal, and she said it was not an animal. She is insistent that it lives and breathes and moves, but she has only seen it once, and from a far distance." Finlay spread out his hands. "It is cast out, she says, and they feed it every night: every night the bowl is put out, every morning it is empty. I must admit I am at a loss, Rey Niima."

Rey, frantically writing, looked up, her pencil still going. "Oh, no, this is fascinating!" she said brightly. "I'm certainly not an anthropologist, but I do believe that there's something to be gained from understanding the beliefs and customs of a—"

"No, it's not a belief or a custom," said Finlay, shaking his head. "They only started doing it a year ago. Food was going missing from the houses at night, out of the gardens and fields. So they thought they would try preparing food and leaving it on the edge of the village, and in the morning the thievery had stopped and the food was gone, so they kept doing it."

"Then it certainly must be a real living creature of some sort," said Rey thoughtfully. "Spirits don't eat, do they?"

"I suppose that depends on the spirit," said Finlay, and they all finished their meal together, sitting under the smoke as the stars came out in the black sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author shall be revealed...soon. :P


	3. The White Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a CW for animal death: mind the tags!

A week later, Finlay tromped back off to the station in the jungle, waving good-bye and promising to be back in two months. Rey, who was a quick learner, had picked up several helpful Twi phrases, such as "Hello" "Goodbye" "Help" and "Where is Ama Yaa?", and even though her pronunciation was dreadful, nobody minded much. Ama Yaa, it turned out, could speak some English, picking up vocabulary quickly, although the verbs stumped her, and made herself understood by gesturing and speaking very slowly to Rey, and some others had picked up words here and there—likely from the missionary, who had come so long ago. They began to call her _Rainyima_ and the children, when they could get away from chores and tending to the gardens, were fascinated by her press-board and sketches.

They had never had a botanist come to visit, and nearly every day Rey was greeted at her door by some small child holding a new sort of flower, asking would Rainyima please make it flat with the press and stick it in her book so they could see, and she willingly obliged, while charting down the genus and family of the plant. Her presence as a "respected wife-woman" as the Ashanti thought of her, and as she had come to think of herself, was also unprecedented, and she became quite the subject of debate and speculation on whether or not these Englishmen treated their respected wife-women as well as the Ashanti treated theirs—and she might even have been able to answer if she had only understood the language.

Another week passed. Rey worked out that the Ashanti did not quite view the designation categories, or gender itself, as Europe did, and wrote everything she could down in her notebook when she was finished categorizing the various new plants by family and genus.

 _I have found that "wife-woman"_ _means any Woman able to bear children, **B** or **Ω** , depending on the context, and it is not uncommon for men to have several wives of various designations, but the **Ω** women are always referred to as "respected wife-women". There are no **A** men, or "husband-men" in the village at all, and I have worked out that they do exist, but live separate from the others, only coming to stay when the rainy season strikes, at which time they spend—to not be crude, of course—entertaining their Wives, who live in the houses all together when the men are away. There are, of course, plenty of **B** men married to women in the village: these are "men". The young, unmarried girls who enter estrus are kept separate from everyone as well, for two weeks total, encompassing both the estrus itself and the courses that come after: Ama Yaa calls it "the fever" and does not discriminate in her language between estrus or menstruation: it is all just the "fever". She is referred to as "chief-woman", which seems to be either a term for her status or a term for any **A** woman: I have not worked that one out yet._

_There are no other young ladies in this village who share my own—I should say affliction, but it does not afflict me, in fact it makes my life quite bearable! regardless, none of the women here are nuditate. The girls are married as soon as they can be. I notice also that the girls and women of childbearing age become quite hungry during the days preceding their "fevers", and instead of being discouraged from eating, as the women are in Britain—or at least at Saint Agatha's—they are allowed to take extra food as they desire._

Rey was rather glad that it was still the dry season: she did not know what she would do if the men all came back and, heaven forbid, she was exposed to some strange man and set off her _womanhood_. No, she ought to put that out of her mind: what a terrifying notion! She glanced over at the bottle of Dr. Aristotle Agnew's Anti-Aphrodisiac tucked into a corner on her washbasin stand to reassure herself that it was still there, and sighed and patted her hair back into place as she set down her pen. The house they had given her was marvelous, two rooms and a makeshift bedstead with a sack full of dried grass to serve as a mattress, over which she had draped her mosquito-netting. Of course there was no plumbing, and she had not had a bath in ages, but it did not matter: it was as good as a mansion. The heat was oppressively bad, and she entertained the thought of going about without anything on but a cloth about her waist like the other women did, then laughed in embarrassment at her own thoughts. "Trousers," she said aloud, looking at the wall. "You are allowed to consider trousers if you _must_ go absolutely wild."

Rey picked up her pen again and kept writing. _I have discovered also that there is some sort of ghost-thing living in the jungle nearby, and as my house is close to the jungle, you can imagine the trepidation I feel. In fact, it may not be a Ghost, but a living creature of some sort with intelligence enough to understand that food in a bowl is to be eaten instead of food for the taking in the field—suppose it is a Missing Link, as Darwin proposed? Ama Yaa was very clear that it is not a white man or a black one, not a woman, and not an animal: a species halfway between Ape and Man would fit such a description, and might be clever enough to work out how to not be seen by humans. And yet! my good guide Finlay is departed, or else I should ask him to speak to her again in more words than I can, for I am sure she initially described it as a "white thing", which of course made me think of Ghosts and Spirits, but no: she was clear that it is not an immaterial phantom, but a living thing, likely of a white colour. Perhaps Apes have albinism, or our Missing Link has white or blond fur? I confess myself very interested in the whole business._

*

The next day, Rey was pulled away from her press and pushed into a game of hide-and-go-seek with the children in the outer edge of the forest about the village, who demanded Rainyima join them and count to at least _waha_ , which Rey, after some quick counting on fingers with the oldest child, a boy of eight, worked out meant _one hundred_ , and since all the other adults were busy and none of the children could count so high, she agreed gaily. How wonderful it was, anyway: children everywhere seemed to be exactly the same! They did not mind that she could not count in Twi, only made sure she understood that when it was over she hoot very loudly and they would then know to be still as snakes; then they scurried off giggling as she turned her back to the jungle and pressed her face to a tree, counting very loudly and slowly.

The sun was warm on the back of her shirtwaist, and she was sure she'd be as freckled as an Irishwoman by the time she got back to England. "Ten—eleven—twelve—" The jungle was pleasant, humming with life and cicadas, the rustle of the leaves in the wind a soft accompaniment. "Fifteen—sixteen—seventeen—"

Truly, jungles were as soporific as opium. Twice she jolted herself back to attention, counting on. Fifty, fifty-five, then sixty. Rey moved her arm up to rest her forehead on, eyes still shut in the thick heat. _I ought to take a nap after this,_ she thought. "Sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four—" and that was when she heard it: a soft, barely discernible sniff.

This would not have been very alarming under ordinary circumstances: after all, there was a pack of children hiding in the jungle and children were generally accustomed to be sniffly and smacky. No: the alarming thing about the sound was that it was coming from _above_ her, several feet up and behind her, and no child could have possibly climbed that high into the trees without making enough noise.

Rey turned about, stopping her counting short and staring up into the foliage, half-blinded by the sudden influx of sunshine and blinking rapidly. "Hello?" she called, half-terrified. There was no answer, no sound at all, and as her vision resolved, she saw nothing in the thick leaves above her. _It must have been my imagination_. There surely were no great tree-dwelling cats in Africa: the jaguar was native to South America, wasn't it?—and lions and cheetahs lived far south on the savannahs. Perhaps it had been a bird which had learned to imitate human sound. Rey turned about and sighed, calming her nerves, and began to count again, wiping her brow with her hanky and tucking it back into her sleeve, then cushioning her arm against the tree again and resuming.

"Sixty-five. Sixty six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight…"

With the tiniest bit of movement, her handkerchief was snatched directly out of her sleeve as neat as you please, and Rey shrieked, startled, and staggered back from the tree. Her first thought was that a bird of some kind must have snatched it, but there was no bird at all, above or around her or in the trees, and her handkerchief was gone: not on the ground, not hanging from a branch, _gone_.

 _A white thing in the jungle. A spirit that lives._ Rey's neck prickled with fear, and she looked about wildly: what sort of creature possessed the dexterity to snatch something from out under her nose so and not leave a trace? "Don't be bally ridiculous," she hissed to herself, "you are a grown woman and you know full well there is no bloody such thing as ghosts."

In England, anyway. She had _liked_ ghost stories: the tales of the spirit of Queen Anne Boleyn trailing after her lost head in castles had made her shriek in delighted fear and hide her face in the bed-clothes in the dormitories at Saint Agatha's. Respectable English ghosts would keep to being phantasms and wholly immaterial, and certainly never steal handkerchiefs out of sleeves in broad daylight: African ghosts might be a different sort entirely. This was no England, and ghosts might be real in this wild place: who could tell?

Rey screwed up her courage, her gut tight as a coil. "I know you're likely still hanging about watching me," she began, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. "Wherever you are. _Whatever_ you are, I mean. At any rate, I want my handkerchief back, _now_ , so if you'd be so kind as to—"

Movement caught her eye, just at the edge of the clearing ten or so feet away, and she choked on her own words, shocked, as she found a pair of eyes staring at her over the edge of an elephant-ear plant, framed by greasy dark hair, lank and bedraggled. The eyes were in shadow, so she could not see much of them at all, but then the owner of the eyes shifted forward slightly, and they came into the light: she could see that the face they were set in was smeared in grime.

With the automatic mindset of a scientist, Rey noted the eyes as they were revealed. Shape: ostensibly almond-like, with a near-monolid; the eyebrows were well-proportioned, triangular and dark, and there was an undeniable intelligence in those eyes. This _was_ a man, then: not a ghost or a demon or an ape. "I—" She stepped forward, intending to greet him, but with a rustle and no other sound he had disappeared from her sight into the underbrush. "Oh, dear," she said, distressed. "I really didn't mean—come, now—"

Rey stepped forward into the trees, pushing vines past her face as she fought her way in. It was much cooler here in the shade, and she looked around, trying to parse out where on earth he could have gone. "Please," she called, struggling to free her skirt from a thorny branch, " _ow_ —I just want my hanky back, if it's not too much to ask. Where have you got to?"

Silence, utter and complete, met her ears. Not even the insects buzzed, and not a single bird called out above her. She paused, resting on a log to catch her breath, and wiped her forehead with her sleeve, as the man was still in possession of her hanky. "I say," she remarked to herself," it's not half as loud in here as it was—"

Rey Niima froze. Just twenty feet away, still as stone, two great golden eyes stared at her. The furred face and mottled coat of a jaguar, almost perfectly camouflaged in the dappled light of the jungle, revealed themselves to her eyes as her mind worked backward. It was rather like those pictures in the magazines, where you were supposed to see the Indians hiding in the woodpile, and never did—until it was too late. Too late. _Oh, God help me,_ Rey thought, too paralyzed with terror to move. _I am a fool and there are jaguars in Africa after all and now I am going to die—_

The jaguar sprang for her. She could not close her eyes: she could only stare as the wickedly sharp claws spread apart, as the teeth bared, as the snarl wrinkled the skin on the cat's nose—

Halfway to her, almost too fast for her eyes to mark, a shape came flying out of the trees and smashed into the great cat, knocking it off its trajectory. The pair of them crashed to the ground, leaves and brush kicked up in massive amounts as the cat snarled and screamed and the man— _the man!_ —wrestled it down silently, only grunts escaping his mouth.

Rey screamed and threw herself to the jungle floor, the idea in her mind that she must find a stick of some sort, _anything_ , a weapon to help. Finding only a rock the size of her fists, she snatched it up and turned, heart pounding, only to see the man with both arms wrapped around the cat's throat as it thrashed and hissed, tail lashing out. He did not have a good grip on it, and had sustained a gash to the upper arm: it would writhe out of his grasp at any moment. There was no time to think. Rey raced over and smashed the jaguar's head in with the rock, screaming in mingled terror and fury as the thing's skull cracked and crunched, the animal going limp. It was all over in moments.

She backed away, terrified of her own actions, and dropped the rock, her hands trembling. The man dropped the dead jaguar, paying it no mind now that it was dead, and turned to her with no expression on his face at all, and not looking at her directly, either: only looking at the ground as he crouched on his hands and knees, and Rey could only think: _what on earth am I to do now?_


	4. The Jungle's Mercy

They had been there, fifteen feet apart, for only a few minutes, the man looking her over from head to toe, dark eyes flickering up and down and across her. Apparently he was just as perplexed by her appearance as she was by his; although there was no expression on that face or word spoken, she got the distinct impression he was wary of her, and unsure. She glanced aside, and her vision lit again on the poor dead jaguar.

"I'm—only—" Bile heaved up, sick horror at her own savage actions on the beast, who was only doing as Nature intended, and Rey Niima turned around and was promptly sick in the bush, trembling like a leaf.

The man did not move, and she drew herself up and faced him again, trying not to look at the mound of beautiful fur on the ground. "I am sorry," she said, swallowing convulsively.

He tilted his head, looking at her from head to toe again, then stood upright slowly as if unaccustomed to it, and Rey then found herself trying _not_ to look at him, because he was entirely naked and filthy from head to toe, caked and streaked with clay and grime and blood. He also stood taller than any man she had ever met, possibly even taller than Dr. Phasma, and his body was lean and sinewy, a form that spoke of long periods without food, as if every ounce of spare nutrition he could come across was immediately turned into muscle. His hair was long and tangled into mats, black and thick, but his _face_ … that was another enigma entirely. The whole of his face was long and sullen: dotted with freckles and moles, sunburnt with high cheekbones and hollows beneath them, a sparse and badly-looked after fluff of beard on his chin and jaw and upper lip, and what she could see of his mouth was full and slightly dour-looking. His nose was large and severe, and seemed to have been broken once or twice before, which made his strange eyes look all the more gentle above it. His skin, true to what Ama Yaa had said, was pale where the sun had not been wont to touch it, and dotted all over with freckles. The white thing, indeed!

She must have looked frightened, for he immediately dropped to all fours again, crouching to put himself down on the ground and still not making eye contact. He exhaled—or was it a hoot?—softly, a gentle _whoo-whuh_ noise, and reached out to touch the jaguar with absurdly large hands.

"I didn't mean to kill it like that," Rey said, feeling as if she'd been thrown into an utter nightmare. "I don't normally kill things. I can barely kill the insects I trap for studies, you know."

The man grunted and picked something up from the ground. To Rey's surprise, it was a bag of some sort, made of skin, and from inside the bag he pulled a stone knife, flinted. He rolled the jaguar over with great strength, the muscles of his back bulging, and cut into the animal's belly.

"Oh, God," said Rey faintly, and turned away, sick again. She clung to the branch of a tree until there was nothing left in her belly, and fell to her knees, wiping her mouth. "Please don't tell me you intend to eat that." The sounds of tearing and cutting behind her said otherwise, and she tried to stare into the jungle and pretend nothing was happening.

He made a little blowing noise again, and she turned to see him shuffling closer to her, both hands stained with blood from the fingers to the elbows, but holding a leaf she hadn't seen before out to her by the stem. "What is it?" she asked, baffled. The man gestured, touching his belly and then his mouth. It was quite clear she was meant to eat it. Rey took it carefully and put it in her mouth, chewing, and the man watched her avidly before something satisfied him and he went back to gutting the jaguar.

Strangely, the leaf settled her stomach very well, to the point she was able to turn back around and watch him work. She chewed it like she'd seen men chew tobacco, holding the wad of leaf in the corner of her mouth, and noted the almost scientific accuracy with which the Wild Man skinned the animal, taking it all apart until it was no longer a _jaguar_ , but only a pile of meat packed neatly in leaves, a wet furry skin crumpled up like a discarded robe, and a lot of messy slippery organs, which he buried with the bones in a small pit he dug using his hands and a piece of bark. When it was over, he pulled another wad of leaf out of the bag, chewed it, put it on his wound, and looked in her direction quickly, then back down at the ground, grunting.

"Well done, I say," she said, smiling. "I don't suppose you know the way back to the village?" He ignored her words entirely and scooted closer to her, on his knuckles and feet like an ape, and tilted his head, looking intently at her boot as if he could not make out its purpose. "That's—my shoe," she said quickly, stunned at his audacity as he untied the laces and pulled it off her foot, revealing her stocking. "Oi!"

The Wild Man grunted again and poked at her stocking, picking at it slightly to lift the knitted fabric away from her foot, which had the unexpected side effect of tickling her badly. Rey giggled, and he looked up with interest at the noise, then lifted her foot by the ankle, ducking his head and peering directly up her skirt, likely to see how the stocking went on, and she shrieked in outrage and kicked at him. "Stop!" she demanded, breathless.

He skittered back a few paces, looking startled. "Stop!" he said, and his voice was strangely deep, rich and soft; nearly nasal and rather gravelly, as if he did not use it often.

"You—you speak English?" she asked, bewildered.

"You—you speak English?" he said with her precise diction and accent, tilting his head as if very interested in whatever was coming out of her mouth.

Whatever he was, he was a very good mimic. Rey snatched her shoe up and jammed her foot back into it. She was no linguist, and badly wished Dameron were here, but perhaps she might get across that words meant things to this man. "Me," she said, pointing at herself; then, pointing at him, "you."

He frowned, brows drawing down. "Me," he said, pointing at himself. "You." He pointed at her.

He was still only mimicking. How on earth was one to get across that _me_ meant one's self, and _you_ meant another person? Rey cast about in her mind, but the Wild Man was coming closer, as if he could not help it, his eyes fixed on her throat. Why on earth was he not making eye contact? She tried to think, and remembered that apes saw eye contact as a form of aggression: perhaps a man who lived in the jungle would learn social behavior from monkeys: they were, after all, similar. "Me—Rey Niima." She tapped her chest twice. Names might work. "Me Rey Niima."

He blinked and tapped his own chest, which seemed wider than two of hers. "Me Rey Niima," he mimicked.

"No," she said, shaking her head. " _Me_ , Rey Niima." She touched her chest again, more insistently, and pointed at him. "You?"

The Wild Man looked at her shirtwaist with interest, and shuffled closer on his hands and feet, crouching up far too close for comfort. "Rey Niima," he said as if testing it, and touched the buttons on her shirt as if he thought they might explode. "Rey Niima."

"I really must—" Rey had never in her life had to entertain a man so close to her person, and rather felt she ought to kick him again, but he was breathing softly, very close to her skin, and his hand suddenly spread out, pressed to her chest in a gesture that was surprisingly clinical, as if testing the give of her sternum. "Oh—goodness," she said faintly.

"Rey Niima," he said, and he pulled the dirty locks of hair away from a comically large, curved ear that had been previously hidden from her sight, and pressed it to her breast, and he was—what on earth was he doing? She took in a breath, and he was very still and warm against her, and _huge_ : what was she to do if he made some sort of outrageous advance?

After several seconds that felt as long as eons, he pulled away, blinking at her, and let out another soft hooting sound, different from the first one he'd made when he had touched the dead jaguar. He touched his own chest again, thumping twice, and looked at her chin, not her eyes. "I—I don't—" she stammered, unable to divine his meaning.

He tapped his chest again insistently, then reached for her, and she fought to not cry out or startle him as he drew her head to his chest, her ear pressed to his breastbone. He smelled dreadful, but she forgot it as she heard his heart beating, _thump-thump_ , in his chest, and realized what he had been doing: listening to hers. "Ah, I see," she said, her face slightly squished against his pectoral. "Very good. Heartbeat. Good. Might you let go of me now—?"

The Wild Man released her, and she sat up, slightly shaken by the ordeal, but no less daunted. He did not seem to be paying great attention to her anymore, but looking at his hands: the palms were pale and creased with dirt, bloodstained and grimy. The backs were roughened with swollen knuckles and callouses, sun-darkened and just as dirty as the palms, with blunt, thick fingers and short nails, but his eyes kept flickering from his hands to hers, back again. He vocalized again, a soft little grunt, and reached out for her again, taking her hand and turning it over, looking at it carefully.

His hands were very warm, and rough, and large. Rey swallowed. "Yes, those are my hands," she squeaked, half-afraid he might yank her arm clean off. His arms were thick and corded with muscle, and she could feel the strength in them even in the way he handled her wrist. "You have them too, see—like so," and she twisted her hand round to press against his, palm to palm and fingers to fingers. Her fingertips hardly reached the top knuckles of his, but she stayed put, watching him as his face broke into realization.

His reaction was almost instantaneous. He let out a high, sharp sound and backed away, crouching, watching her with wide eyes. Another set of short little noises torn out of his throat, and he was coming back again, inching closer as if drawn to her, hands finding the hem of her skirt again and pulling it up slowly, just enough to make out the shape of her foot and leg under the stocking.

Rey, under normal circumstances, would have screamed and kicked a man attempting to do such a thing, but at the way he bent close and hooted to himself softly, then looked at his own foot, she could not bring herself to do it. He had clearly never seen another human who looked like him before so close: she ought to let him parse it out on his own. It might bring them to an understanding quicker.

Her magnanimous feelings faded as he picked her stocking away from her ankle and tore it open with no more effort than she might tear a piece of paper. "I say!" she said, outraged. "That was my last decent pair!" The Wild Man took no note, as she was not kicking him (yet) and bent again, sniffing at the exposed skin there.

A dreadful thought occurred to her: suppose he was of _that_ designation which posed a threat to her person and her research? Suppose, even worse, he did not understand what her scent might mean? He seemed virile enough, but there was no way to discover whether a wild man who lived in the jungles of Africa and had no human contact knew anything about human sexual behaviors at all: even if he was a **B** , which was unlikely due to his height and build, he might pose a threat to her—he was twice her size and very, very strong. He did not seem to smell of anything which might belie his kind, but he was covered in dirt and clay: he could be anything at all washed clean. _Perhaps he is a different breed of man; perhaps he is not anything at all._ Rey stayed very still and quiet, not knowing what to do.

He sniffed at her, crouching over her legs, then raised his head and gave her a searching look, never looking directly into her eyes, but finding her cheeks, face, chin, mouth. His nostrils flared as he sniffed again, and then he leaned in closer, inhaling deeply by her throat.

The effect on him was startling, and immediately wiped away all of Rey's doubt as to what, precisely, he was. The man emitted a grunt, scented her again with a loud sniff, and grunted again—or was it a groan? a slow _huh-uh_ deep in his throat: the meaning was quite universal, and would have been so even if he had not leaned closer, put his tongue out, and _licked_ her just behind her jugular vein, pulsing hot and warm. Against every logical rule, her body warmed to it: soft heat gathering between her legs.

"Oh, God," she uttered in horror, and scuttled away backward as fast she could on her backside, coming up against a thick tree. He raised his head and watched her go, seeming very cavalier about the whole thing, and as he crouched and moved forward again, she saw that his body was responding in the most obvious way possible to her scent.

Terror gripped her by the throat. He was far too big, that much was clear, and she wanted nothing to do with _that_ even if he hadn't been absolutely filthy and the size of her bloody forearm, or close to it: her gut clenched and she snatched up a stick, brandishing it at him. "You stay right there," she gasped, feet scrabbling as she pressed her thighs together and curled into a ball. How on earth did female apes convey disinterest? She had no idea. "Right there, sir, and don't you _dare_ make any inappropriate advances on me, or I'll—I'll—"

But he was not moving, eyeing the branch with trepidation instead. He did not seem perturbed by the goings-on below his waist at all. "Rey Niima," he said, and looked at her chin.

It was far too much: she burst into tears, the shock of the jaguar and the naked wild man and the fact that her body was _warming_  in response to being _licked_ by him—Rey had never wished more to be home in England and safely locked away in a study hall where even if the **A** 's smelt you, they were at least _civilized_ about it. _Oh, God,_ she thought, choking on her sobs, _if this is the man who is to drag me into my womanhood, I shall be dragged kicking and screaming!_

A series of soft, distressed sounds met her ears, and Rey, still holding the branch like a sword, wiped her eyes with her arm, hiccupping, to see the Wild Man shifting his weight from side to side, still crouched on all fours, knees bent. He tilted his chin down, looking at the ground, then crawled forward—but not to advance on her, only to prostrate his body lower, until he was crouched flat, knees tucked under his body and hands flat and open on the jungle floor. He hooted mournfully, and rolled his head from side to side, and did not look at her at all.

Rey stopped crying, shocked at the display. She _must_ retrieve that book on ape behavior and read it: it appeared he was putting himself in a submissive position, likely attempting to convey…what? That he was no danger to her? That he did not mean to harm her? How was she to respond?

At the sound of her sobs ceasing, he peeked up hopefully through a lock of lank hair, and looked back down as soon as he realized she was watching him with a grunt. Rey had to laugh at that, and he peered up again, raising his head a little. Ah, he must be confused: apes surely did not laugh—or did they? His mouth was turning up at the corners: he was _smiling!_ Not showing his teeth, but smiling—why, it was a breakthrough.

"You aren't going to drag me off and outrage me, are you?" she asked, setting the branch down. "Oh—my God, it must have been hours: the children will be looking for me. I must get back to the village."

The Wild Man inched forward, looking inquisitive, and when he sat up she noted that the prior state of him which had made her so frightened had dissipated somewhat. A relief, that was: she did not care to be near such a situation, especially not in skirts. "Rey Niima," he said, pointing at her.

"Yes," she replied, slightly irritated—

" _You_ Rey Niima," he said with perfect clarity, and she did not realize what had happened for a moment, then gasped as she understood the full meaning of what had transpired: a man who was by all counts likely feral and never exposed to English had just worked out firstly, what she had meant by _me_ and _you_ ; secondly, he had differentiated between the sounds of her name and the sounds indicating what precisely the name signified; thirdly, he possessed enough self-awareness to discriminate between himself and another being. Rey's mouth dropped open and hung for a second before she snapped it up shut and nodded, eyes feeling huge as saucers.

"Yes," she gasped, pointing at herself. "Me Rey Niima. You?" She indicated his chest, and he hesitated, his lips pursing into a pout. "You?" she asked again.

"Me," he said, pointing at himself, and sighed, deep and low, grumbling a little. " _Kyolore."_

Rey blinked in consternation. It sounded Twi, but she couldn't be sure. "Kyolore," she tried, and he perked up, blinking at her under the curtain of matted black hair over his eyes. "You… Kyolore."

He inched closer to her, but she did not feel afraid at all now. His hand reached up, the index finger brushing her bottom lip as if he was afraid he might break her. "Me Kyolore," he said very softly, eyes darting back and forth across her face. "You Rey Niima."

"Yes," she said, aghast at his quickness. "Who on earth gave you a name? The Ashanti?"

He was no longer paying attention, however: something in the jungle caught his ear, and he listened for a second, then turned back to her with a grunt. Clearly, he could not communicate to her what it was he wanted her to do, and she could not understand his own form of language, so it was that Rey found herself dumped rather unceremoniously over the man's shoulder, carried off through the trees as he sped along on all fours, quick and quiet.

She knew better by now than to make a loud scene, lest another predator find them, but even so, as she jounced up and down on the lean, long back, Rey thought perhaps another lesson in grammar might do them both a world of good. _You come with me_ was not so very difficult, was it?

He came to a halt and dropped her on the forest floor like a sack of stones, and backed up, something wary in his eyes. "Whatever is it?" she asked, bewildered, and looked around: there was far more sunlight here, and she suddenly heard the voice of the children, far off and distant, crying _Rainyima! Rainyima!_

The Wild Man backed up again, eyes fixed on her eyes, now, not on any other part of her, and he was _trembling_ , as if very frightened. She could see that his irises were not black: but a warm, soft greeny-brown, deep mahogany at the centers. "Kyolore," she tried, and he blinked twice, focused on her. "Thank you."

He swallowed visibly, his throat bobbing. "Rey Niima," he said softly, and disappeared into the trees as if he had never been there.

The children came barging into the clearing not a moment later, and upon seeing her swarmed her, a dozen panicked voices yammering in chorus and tugging at her sleeves, her bloody cuffs, her filthy shirtwaist, her hair. She could only stare into the bush where the man had disappeared, and let the children drag her, pale and shaken, back to the village, calling for Ama Yaa.

*

After the most industrious bath of her life that evening, consisting of a scrub-down in well water and a fine bar of French-milled soap she had been saving for when the occasion called (and if this was not the sort of occasion that called for soap, she did not know what was), Rey put on a nightgown and sat down to write in her notebook, but could not make any words come. She had intended to write that she had triumphantly found the living spirit in the outlying jungle: that it was an intelligent human being, that she had taught him her name, that he used rudimentary tools—but none of the words would come, and instead she found herself opening her plant-book and working on a sketch of him. She painstakingly drew out his face: the long jaw, the gentle eyes, the strong nose, the mats of black hair, the full mouth with its beard bracketed by hollow, high cheekbones. It was a pity that a drawing could not convey how large he was. She ought to put in a horse for scale.

Her mind drifted back to Ama Yaa's scolding, about half of which she understood, but guiltily apologized all the same, knowing that she could have put the children in danger with her antics. She did not feel as if asking the matriarch what on earth _Kyolore_ was and where he came from was in good taste at the moment, so she only finished the sketch as well as she could from memory and went back to her notebook, able to write at last.

_I have become acquainted with the mysterious Spirit of the jungle hereabouts that I referenced before: he is a Man. Words fail me, as they never have before: he is perfectly enormous and I helped him kill a jaguar. No, that is not correct, I killed the poor beast while he wrestled it down (imagine it), and after that we attempted conversation, but he can hardly speak a word of English—I am being dreadfully bad at telling this. What I mean to say is that the thing in the Jungle is no spirit, but only a very wild Man I believe is of Caucasian descent who stands approximately six foot three inches and reeks like a pigsty, and yet for all that I did enjoy his company for a brief time. He has learned my name and I have learned his: he called himself Kyolore, thought what this means or signifies I do not yet know. He walks on all fours and sometimes stands on two legs, very much like a great Ape, and communicates by Vocalizing: Hooting and Blowing and Grunting and other such methods, coupled with gestures such as thumping his chest, lying on the ground, and moving the head. He does smile, but does not bare the teeth, and will not look at me in the eyes: I believe these are aggression signals in Great Apes and therefore he obeys the laws of their Language. In fact, he only looked at my eyes once, and that was while bidding me Farewell: he seemed very frightened as he did so, but whether that was due to the behavior or to the approach of the children I do not know. I confess myself extremely confused as to his physiology, as I could not scent him whatsoever during our encounter, but he seemed quite affected by my scent in ways only an **A** would be. It shall remain a mystery until I speak, then, to Ama Yaa, and when that shall be next I do not know. _

*

The next morning, when little Kwaku James went to fetch the bowl left at the edge of the village every night, it was waiting as it was every morning: only this morning it was sitting beside two things. One was a clean, fine jaguar pelt, folded neatly.

The second thing, folded just as carefully and perched atop the golden and black pelt, like a small white bird, was Rey Niima's handkerchief.


	5. The Song of Kyolore

"You come to ask Ama Yaa of the thing in the jungle, yes?"

Rey swallowed, trying to be polite but burning with curiosity. It had been a week, and the fine pelt left for her had been the talk of the village: especially because (to her embarrassment) the women had laughingly informed her by pointing at the pictures in her books that the animal was _Panthera pardus pardus_ and not, as she had assumed, _Panther onca_. She had taken the skin to her house, half-afraid to touch it, but it made a very fine covering for her prickly grass bed, at any rate, and she had gotten used to it. There had been no other sign or sighting of Kyolore, not that there would be, since the mothers had strictly forbidden their children from playing in the jungle anymore.  "I have, yes, and I do beg forgiveness if it's not right."

"It is right," said Ama Yaa, and sighed. Her skin gleamed like polished stone in the sunlight. "Come in. We talk."

Rey ducked her head and went into the hut. She had taken to wearing her one pair of trousers: cycling trousers, and while she felt very foolish, at least she was slightly cooler and nimbler in her movements. She sat cross-legged on the ground and waited for Ama Yaa to sit before speaking.

Ama Yaa sat heavily, looking tired. "He tell you his name?"

"He did," said Rey, hesitant. "Kyolore. What does it mean?"

" _Kyolo mprenu_. He no said it right." Ama Yaa sighed. "He who… have feet in both places. Walk twice." She gestured, one hand open. "Beasts." She opened the other hand. "Men. Those the places."

Rey wished she had brought her notebook. "So you mean he is both man and beast?"

Ama Yaa shook her head, then reconsidered and nodded. "Man, but…" She curled her lip and made a face. "Beast."

"Man who acts like a beast," Rey helpfully supplied. "I would have thought him a beast if he had not spoken back to me. I couldn't—" She flashed a look up at Ama Yaa, who raised an eyebrow. "I mean. He didn't smell like you, Ama Yaa."

"Mmm," hummed Ama Yaa, looking at the fire. "No. No husband-man, no chief-woman—" she sniffed loudly, illustrating her point, and Rey nodded.

"Yes, he had no scent, like a—a man," said Rey, trying to remember the term for **B** men.

"He cover it," said Ama Yaa, and touched her throat, sweeping gestures up and down the sides.

What on _earth_. Was the scientific theory then true, and _did_ human pheromones originate from glands in the neck, as postulated by the leading onomasiologists? Rey cast back in her mind, and remembered Kyolore: he had sniffed and licked at the side of her throat, just behind the vein there. "You mean—" Rey swept her hands up and down the throat. "You mean the smell comes from here?"

"Yes," said Ama Yaa.

Rey gaped. "But you can't _possibly_ know that—I mean, even European scientists can't dissect a human body with the purpose of discovering the origin of the scenting glands yet under orders from the Church. And you don't have operating theaters, or scalpels, or—"

"Rainyima," said Ama Yaa gravely, "You is wrong. I know."

"But that's impossible."

Ama Yaa barked a short, sharp laugh. "Impossible! Impossible! You see a wild man in the jungle, you not say impossible—but I say, the mating scent is in the neck, and you say, impossible. No, Rainyima."

"But how would he cover it?" Rey asked. "I thought that was impossible, too."

"He know to find the right plants: mix with the clay on the river, spread. Cover. Good for moving when _etwie_ sniff well," said Ama Yaa, eyes glinting. "Not for every day, not all the times. But in the jungle, hunting, he need it."

"He knew a plant to stop me from being sick, too," said Rey, stunned.

"Yes. You are like him, Rainyima. You both like the plants." Ama Yaa smiled.

"How do you know he knows how to do all this?" Rey asked. "You said you had only seen him once."

"I see him, yes. Yes, once. I, Ama Yaa, see him in the river, washing: he wear clay on his neck from ear to shoulder, mix with plant leaf. Then I know. I know he is husband-man, and I stay away, and he stay away from me. I am chief-woman: he smell me here, he do not come. Food only, he come for to eat, then go." The woman's voice deepened slightly: clearly the **A** territorial attributes Rey had read of once or twice in a penny dreadful or two had some base in fact. "He not come for the wife-women, or the respected wife-women, when his time is. He know better. I name him, when I see him. I am Ama Yaa."

Privately, Rey thought in a brawl between the man and Ama Yaa, the tiny woman stood no chance at all, but she kept that to herself. "His time?" she inquired.

"Yes, his time, the time of mating."

Oh. _Rut._ Rey's cheeks flamed: she had not known it truly existed, only that in England it was _never_ spoken of, not even among the most vulgar of people. How unfair, that female behavior should be dissected in the public thought and the male behavior considered too _indiscreet_ to speak of! "I do not know anything about this," she confessed, and Ama Yaa's eyes widened.

She hummed to herself again and sat back. "They teach you nothing, Rainyima. So. The man, he becomes hot in his blood with the fever. A week, maybe, it lasts for, few times in year. Only happen, when he smell the respected wife-woman after he has _not_ smell. So we keep our husband-men away: their spirit is weak if they stay close all the time."

"How many times a year does it happen, if a man stays with his, erm, respected wife-woman?" asked Rey. _This_ must be why marriages between women such as herself and **A** men in Britain were so discouraged: none of them would get anything done if the men were regularly sent into ruts by their wives! Good Lord, what a nightmare. At least all the **A** 's were mostly in Parliament and the Ministry of War where they belonged, if not at St. Michael's School: the in-fighting must be abominable.

"Five times, maybe six," said Ama Yaa, after thinking about it for a minute. "Twice in the spring, in the rainy season."

"Ama Yaa," said Rey, feeling a dreadfully heavy sensation in her gut, "what if Kyolore— _mprenu_ —what if he happened to, erm pick up on something he shouldn't have?"

She tilted her head. "I do not understand."

"He—Kyolore, he smelled me." Rey touched her neck and sniffed to illustrate, and Ama Yaa's eyes went wide. "I did not know—I could not smell him. But he did me."

Ama Yaa stood up quickly. "He smell you?" she demanded, sounding slightly panicked. "You tell me, Rainyima, Kyolore smell you?"

"Yes," Rey whispered, feeling very foolish. "Yes, Ama Yaa, he did."

"He—" Ama Yaa gestured with her hands, and Rey knew very well exactly what she was asking: although the gesture would have been considered crude in the worst sort of gutter, she did not feel shocked at all. After all, she had already seen the real thing.

"Yes, Ama Yaa."

"No, no," Ama Yaa said, sighing. "Oh, Rainyima. He come close to the village, he sing for you. You do not go."

"No—I should never—" Rey gulped. "How long will it be?"

"Days. Week, maybe; his spirit strong. You stay in village with respected wife-women, not in house. Bring books, bring things. We keep you safe." And Rey believed her, this tiny little woman with burnt-umber skin: believed she could move a mountain if she so pleased.

*

Six days later, it began.

Rey was sitting inside Ama Yaa's home with twenty other young women, all eating dinner and chatting. She had just managed to teach one of the other women the numbers one to ten in English, and for her efforts got a lesson in arithmetic in Twi, when the peaceful night was broken by a sound that floated across the air, penetrating the walls and silencing their talk.

Rey froze, hand halfway to her mouth, food forgotten. The sound died, then began again: low, desperate, a moaning cry that began in a deep note and floated up, rising and falling, trailing off on a high note. She looked at Ama Yaa, and Ama Yaa looked at her, and the sound began again, this time at the higher note, descending and rising, ending in a long, low groan. It sounded like agony, like begging, like the promise of devotion to any person who would come and help.

_He sing for you._

Rey shuddered and clutched her arms: the sound was ruthlessly compelling in a way nothing she had heard had ever been. It made her want to crawl out of her skin: to go and find the man making it and _fix_ whatever was the matter, to cry out in response, to smother the crying mouth with her own, to—

She was halfway to the door before she realized what was happening, along with three other _respected wife-women_ (two of whom she knew were married to _husband-men_ and one who was not). Ama Yaa barked something in Twi and four _wife-women_ barred their way to the door, shaking their heads and speaking calmly, repetitively, slowly. Rey did not need to know any Twi to know what they were saying: _do not go, it is safe, you will be all right._

"Is this what the fever is like?" she asked, letting one of the other wife-women guide her to the floor.

Her specific condition was not shared in this particular village, but that did not mean that the respected wife-women sitting around her did not know what she meant. "No," said one, Abena Mary, her hand pressed to her head, "it is worse."

How very reassuring. Rey got on her knees and prayed very hard: she was not strictly religious at all anymore, but maybe there was a God here that handled matters like this and would listen. _Please,_ she begged silently, _don't let me be weak and go out there. Please do not let me go._

A stab of possessiveness took her as another girl sprang up and darted for the door, only to be stopped by another woman, Akua Anima, who was immune to the call: how dare anyone else feel so affected when it was _her_ he was waiting for, singing for, out there all alone in the jungle? Under any other circumstances, Rey would have written down the intricacies of the ritual: the wife-women could not be affected by the rutting male, but the respected wife-women could be, so it was the wife-women's task, naturally, to bar them from going. Reasonable, really: there was nothing stopping a wild orgy of sex from happening in the jungle, and with multiple men in rut all mating at once with multiple **Ω** women, the Ashanti could not know which man's spirit lived in which child: they had regulated it for the maintaining of order in the tribe: separated and apart.

It was a rational and good practice, truly. That did not stop Rey from wanting, on a very subconscious level that became more and more conscious as time passed, to scratch out Akua Anima's eyes and make a mad dash for the jungle.

Ama Yaa's sharp eyes noted her, and she said something sharp and quick to another woman, who nodded and sat down with Rey, holding her hands. She began to sing softly, and the song was taken up by the other women: drowning out the vivid wailing from the edge of the village. Rey couldn't understand the words, but the tune was simple and repetitive, so she sang along, half-forming the words, fighting to keep her wits about her.

On and on it droned, until the women had fallen asleep, one by one on the floor of the hut. Ama Yaa remained awake, watching and listening, and the last thing Rey saw before drifting into an uneasy sleep, curled up on her leopard-pelt, was her face, stony and stern.

*

He wandered.

There was no end to it: he just wandered, drifting and following the _scent_ , the _scent_ , desperate for _her_ , longing for _her_ , _come back to me_ , _come find me_. His blood felt as if it was boiling, as if it would evaporate away like morning mists if he kept on, but he could not stop: if he stopped he would die.

He knew that would not happen, somewhere in the back of his mind that was still reasonable and could think. The rest of him was consumed with need: _her_ taking up every thought, every breath, every movement. Everything hurt. He just wanted _her._ Sound would not stop pouring out of his throat. He couldn't control it. He couldn't make it stop. He didn't want to, really, not if _she_ would hear and if it made _her_ come back.

He dragged himself through the brush and blinked at the distant fires he saw in the clearing: the place-where-the-chief-woman lived was alive and waiting and full of People he was terrified of, people that would shriek and beat at him and curse him if they saw him. It had happened, long ago, so he knew very well to stay away. The chief-woman here now was different: her scent was all over the first three food-things they had left for him here, hot and sharp and making his hair prickle all over with danger—but she had been kind, and named him, and he had not starved after What Came Before.

He tried to think of What Came Before, but the heat in his body stopped it, burning the thought out of him and turning him into an animal. Not _him_ , not a thing that could talk to other things like him, but a beast, a thing that acted without any reason.

There was a way down into the village, and he could see _her_ nest, the nest where _she_ must live: her scent was all over it, and he followed, desperate to find her, desperate to the point it overrode his terror of the People in the Chief-Woman's Place.

Sweet grasses, blossoms, sweet water, musky honey. He had smelled her and knew immediately the danger, and had not cared: she smelled so good and sweet and unlike anything he had ever smelled before even under all the strange things on her body that it made his mouth go wet and his throat tingle and his mating part had gone hard as it had not been in years. But she had been afraid of him, and barked at him: he had obeyed and gone down, and she had not run away, but instead let him take her back as far as he dared to go to the Chief-Woman's Place, and he had counted every second with her as precious as sunlight hours.

More noises tore out of his mouth, wailing and wanting, as he approached the nest: it was wood with tall sides, and a canopy to cover it. Good, strong nest. He could build another, a better one, if he wanted to. He crawled up to it and placed his hand on the wall, moaning: she must be inside, must be. Her scent was so strong here it nearly blinded him. The thought of her inside, waiting for him, ready to let him take her, was so strong that it overtook his mind for a moment, and he slammed his shoulder into the wall, which opened on an angle with a sharp _bang_ and revealed the inside of the nest.

It was dark and dim, reeking of her scent, and he dragged himself inside, vocalizing changed to soft chirps, inquisitive and tender. _You are here?_ He followed his nose to a large clump of grass covered in a cloth, and buried his face in it, inhaling. _She_ had been here; _she_ slept here…

Where _was_ she? "Rey Niima," he managed to force out past the rut-singing, hand cupping his chest as his mouth curled around the unfamiliar sounds. It hurt, it hurt so much to not have her here: he had not eaten in days. "Rey Niima." Was he saying it right? Would she come if he said it right? "Rey Niima!" He must be doing something wrong: she was not here, she was not here. Tears leaked past his eyes, and he crawled up on the grass-mound, curling in on himself. He was all wrong. All wrong. She had been afraid. She would not come to him, even though his hands were like her hands, though her heart inside her beat just like his: she was not here.

The touch of the cloth felt good on his swollen and aching mating-part, and he rubbed it against the rough cloth, grunting through his teeth as he imagined her here. It was easy, with the scent of her all around him, sweet, sweet, sweet. Back and forth, back and forth. He was calling for her, she was coming, she was letting him have her, she was—

He drooled, moaning, as he finished, sticky and hot on the cloth, and used both hands to squeeze down on the swelling flesh at the base of it, groaning as pleasure filled him—but not enough pleasure, not the right kind. It did not feel right; it gave no real relief. She would feel right, Rey Niima. He held on tight, crying out more: would she come now, that he had proved he was able to give seed? The smell of it filled the nest. No: something was not right, still. He must do something else to earn her, but what it was he did not know.

As soon as the swelling went down and his head cleared, he crawled out of the sweet nest and made his way over to a wooden thing, just at his eye-height, something he had never seen before. He did not know anything about that, so he left it alone for the present, circling the hard wood ground, brushing up against the wood sides of the nest. There was a hard thing of hide on the ground, and he knew it was hide because he licked it to see. He worked out the fastenings, and opened it: her scent billowed out from inside and he buried his face in the things inside: soft things, hard things, strange things he had never seen the like of. All of them drowned him in her smell, and he found himself crying out, rough and hoarse, as his mating-thing went hard again, his blood hot and singing.

"Rey Niima," he groaned, stumbling back to the soft nest of grass and scent, a soft thing clutched in his fist. He had waited so long: the rut had taken him in the deep trees four days ago and only now had it driven him so close. It was not good to wait. Another sun, maybe, and it would be over, and he would be eager for that meat he had hidden in the clay by the cold river. He curled in on himself again, trembling, drinking in her smell as he rubbed himself against the coarse covering. Maybe she didn't know about the scents: maybe she was something different than the People in the Chief-Woman's Place, maybe she—

He wailed out his completion again and seized himself hard to prolong it, panting as his fingers curled tight around his swollen flesh. He was tender like ripe fruit there, and if he only held on, he could think for a moment.

No, he had been in the clay and the scent-herb that day, hadn't he? She would not have smelled him. He must—he must take it off, when he had the time to go back to the pool, and wash himself: then she would take his scent and she would _know_ , she would know, and then he would have a mate at last, a _mate_ to be with and hunt for and sleep with at night. He would have to remember the words he had learned from listening to the Mishun-Aree, who had lived in this very nest, so long ago: he was sure it was the same language Rey Niima spoke, and it would please her, him speaking as she did.

There was no relief to be found in the short wake of afterward. He could scent her easily, now: she was somewhere further into the Place, and with the others like her, all mingled together in confusion, but he could scent her out among them all, as if she was made exactly for him, as if he would never be able to scent another female again. Only the fear of invading the Chief-Woman's Place kept him from storming into the nest where they were keeping her and taking her away, so all he could do was helplessly keep on wailing for her, face buried in the cloth, her scent surrounding him, and Rey Niima as far away as if she was in the sky with the stars.


	6. A Bath and a Shock

Rey and Ama Yaa went together up to the house after it was all over, and right away Ama Yaa paused, nose wrinkling. "He did come," she said quietly, and pointed: the door was open, a crack down the center of it as if something very hard had beaten into it.

"Oh, dear," said Rey, cautiously sniffing. There seemed to be no man's smell about at all. Perhaps he had packed himself in clay before he had barged into her house, or perhaps the scent had faded?

Ama Yaa stepped in, and sighed deeply, humming. "Ah, _Kyolomprenu_ ," she said softly, shaking her head.

"What?" Rey stepped in, adjusting her vision to the light streaming in through the netting-covered windows, and wrinkled her nose: the place reeked of _something_ , something alkaline that she had never smelled before, and her bed had been dragged off its stead and into the center of the floor. Crusted, dried, pale stains splattered the entire thing, top to bottom, and grime and clay smeared it to boot—her press was untouched, but her valise had been opened and her clothes cast about with abandon, stained and bedraggled and grimed much like the bed. The floor had dirty, large footprints all over it, but only in her bedroom: the rest of the house was untouched. "What on _earth_ —"

"Seed," said Ama Yaa, pointing at the ruined mattress, and Rey blushed to her collarbone. Undaunted, Ama Yaa pressed on. "Of man."

"Yes, I—I get the idea, thank you," she said shortly, humiliated. "My _clothes_." She bent and picked up a nightgown with two fingers: it had been torn and sullied and appeared to have been used as a personal hygiene rag. "What am I going to do?"

"We dress you," said Ama Yaa, patting her arm. "We show you how to wash. New clothes, ah?"

"Yes, new clothes," said Rey heavily. "Thank you, Ama Yaa."

*

Laundry was an all-day affair, there being no charwomen or laundresses in the deepest jungles of Africa. Rey helped as much as she could, wrapped in a yellow-and-green striped piece of cloth that wound about her shoulder and covered most of her, but left her arms scandalously bare: she put all the things in a basket and helped sort out what was too damaged to salvage and what she could salvage while two other women shaved up a root with a knife and worked the pieces up with water to make a lather. Another woman set a large iron pot to boil over a fire, and they all exchanged stories of past similar mishaps, laughing, while Rey crouched miserably over the basket of Belgian lace collars and camisoles.

 _I was an utter fool to bring this all out here,_ she thought. Next time she _would_ go about dressed in trousers, see if she didn't—assuming there would be a next time, of course, and that she had not bungled the whole expedition beyond repair.

She wiped sweat from her face as the women showed her how to put the lathered root into the water, then dip the clothes in, and swish them from side to side, soaking out all the grime and unmentionable substances.

Really, it was beyond uncivilized of him, even for a wild man who lived in the jungle. Rey felt a stab of anger: what sort of man scattered a woman's clothes about so? _One who sees the action as marking his territory,_ came the rational and academic answer from somewhere in the back of her mind. Rey did not want to be rational or academic: she rather wanted to use the ruined lace to strangle Kyolore to death with. He had no _right_ to her whatsoever, no right to make use of her things the way he had, no right to any of it.

She lifted her clothes out of the steaming water, and she sighed at how dingy they looked: nothing like the bright and cheerful colors of the cloth she wore now. "Well, I suppose it shall have to do," she said, and the other women nodded in agreement, patting her on the back and showing her how to string out the wet laundry to dry in the afternoon sunlight.

*

After another day full of charting down a new sort of orchid she had never seen before, Rey set her paints down and stretched, sighing. She was smudged and sooty from the previous day's laundry fire, and sweating all the way down to her backside: there was nothing more she wanted than a cold bath, but all the well water was tepid at best. "You are a spoilt little woman," she grumbled at herself. She could have all the hot baths imaginable when she returned to England, of course, but the thought of more heat in this weather was horrid. She set stones on the paper to stretch it so it would not wrinkle as it dried, then got up. Ama Yaa had mentioned a cold pool of water somewhere north of the village, not very far, but far enough that it was not practical to go to all the time, so she decided she ought to go and find this lake: perhaps a swim would do her good and clear her mind.

Rey took with her a linen towel (one of the things he had left untouched) and her fine bar of French soap, and a change of underthings and the Kenta cloth Ama Yaa had given her, and off she went, walking as quietly as she could, for she was not eager to initiate another sort of terrifying encounter like the last one.

The jungle was cool under the canopy as she went in further, and after some time she could hear the sound of pattering water. Excited, Rey sped her pace, and halted quickly at the sight that met her eyes: a low fall of water, maybe ten feet high, fell into a deep greeny-blue pool, ringed with mossy rocks. She looked about quickly, and seeing no large furry predators come to drink, quickly stripped off her clothing down to her (worse for wear) chemise and put her feet into the water.

Oh, it was _cold._ Blessed Lord, it was cold, and clear, and Rey swished her feet, grinning to herself as she splashed her legs. She stood on the unseen rock, lifting her chemise over her head and tossing it to the side, and that was when she saw him.

His head was in the water up to his mouth, his hair matted flat to his head and exposing his very large ears, which stuck out on each side as a foil to his large nose. All of him was submerged, and she could just make out the pale shape of him treading water below the surface.

Rey stood there, staring at him in shock, before realizing she was _naked_ , and snatching the chemise to her front. "I—I didn't see you there," she called, idiotically. "I—oh, God."

He lifted far enough out of the water to speak, water dripping from his beard. "Rey Niima," he said, blinking, and looking at her eyes, not her chin.

"Yes, it's me," she said, drawing her legs up in fright as he began to move closer to her, still submerged in the water. "How on earth—can you really hold your breath that long?"

He grunted, but still did not get out of the water past his neck, and she realized that the only thing separating her from his scent was the water. "Rey Niima," he said again, testing the inflection, this time making it soft and slow. "Me—I—sing."

"You—" Rey gaped. He _did_ know English? "You—you _did_ sing, or you _will_ sing?"

He grunted softly, and Rey suddenly knew what he meant exactly. "Oh—you mean you sang when you—when you came to the village and you—you—broke into my bloody house and wrecked my clothes, do you?"

Both dark eyes flickered back up to find hers, and his cheeks flushed above the water, as if he felt what he was doing was very daring. "I sang," he corrected himself, and looked away again. "You…you…" He clearly did not possess the vocabulary to explain: he hooted softly and hung his head.

"I didn't come," she said, and he looked up. "No. I did not. I—I can't, you see. I don't—oh, how do I explain this to you? I haven't—I don't—" It was no good, he could barely understand her words, so she put it all out, tears gathering in her eyes while his eyes never left her face. "I had to go to a lot of bally trouble getting the grant to travel out here in the first place, you know, because I'm a bloody Omega, and _yes,_ I shall damn well say the word if I wish to: I only got the money because I'm nuditate, and of course you don't know what that is, but it means I'm not a full woman yet, I suppose, because I haven't had a heat yet, and I _won't_ ever start them up until I come in contact with someone who's supposed to perfectly match me, physiologically—or something ridiculous like that, I'm not a biologist—and, well, I feel like on one hand that's perfectly all right by me, since I don't have any interest in being a housewife, for Heaven's sake, I just wanted to be a botanist before anything else and it isn't right that I'm to be shut out of the field on account of my gender and my designation, you see. But when—when I heard you singing for me, I—I wanted things I had never wanted in my life, and I don't know if I still want them or not, now that I—I don't know. I don't know! I don't bloody know how any of this nonsense works and I'm _terrified_ , there's so much nobody _told_ me and I don't know what to do!"

Silence fell. Kyolore, ear-deep in water, hummed to himself in a low register and moved away, still treading water. "Water," he said, swishing his hand below the surface. "You. Water."

Rey shut her eyes and wiped them. "Oh, all right," she said heavily, and slipped in, casting aside her chemise: it was the most uncivilized thing she had ever done, and she did not care. The water swallowed her, cold and soft, and she sighed in relief at it, taking in a breath and floating on her back. As long as he stayed below the water, there would be no problem.

Kyolore's nostrils widened, and he moved slightly closer, both eyes fixed on her chest as her breasts bobbed above the surface. She watched him out of the corner of her eye and rolled over, dipping her torso below the water again, and wetting her hair. "I'm going to wash my hair," she explained, climbing back up to her little pile of things and getting out the French soap. He watched from below as she undid the pins and let it all fall down, then began to rub the soap through it. She felt very like a mermaid, sitting naked and scrubbing her hair, although without the fish-tail.

Back down she went, and swam over to the falls, Kyolore following behind at a respectful distance, but silently. She rinsed her hair in the water, the pressure flattening her hair in locks to her skin, and stepped out, swishing the suds away before swimming back over to the rocks and lathering herself up, scrubbing. The soap smelled of roses, and Kyolore wrinkled his nose from below, looking at her as if he did not care for this artificial scent at all. She dipped herself back down, her skin gone pink and clean, and rinsed herself, splashing on her chest.

"You ought to let me wash you off," she mused, giving him a look. "That hair, for one: you should chop it all off and start again, for it's as matted as a bird's nest. And I think a shave would do you well, although heaven knows how you'd like it, having a blade in your face."

"Face," he echoed, puzzled.

"Face," she said, using her hands to gesture at her own: sides to front, finger to indicate the features. "Face." She then indicated the circumference of her head, down to the back of her neck. "Head."

"Head," he said, and cupped the back of his own. Then he pointed at his nose and gave her an expectant expression.

"Nose," she said, touching her own. A vocabulary lesson it was, then. Very good. "Mouth." She touched her mouth. "Teeth." She pulled her lip up to show him her own excellent canines, and he came a little closer, then did the same, showing her a mouth full of very white, crooked teeth. "How on earth did you pick up English so quickly?"

"English," he echoed, and brightened up. "Mishun-aree."

"Oh—the missionary? The one who was here years ago?" Rey was interested all over again.

"Mishun-aree," he repeated, and pressed his hands together, eyes cast upward. The gesture was pious, but Rey had to laugh anyway.

"Yes, that is indeed what they do," she told him, treading water. "You must have been a little boy, then. How old are you, anyway?"

He didn't seem to grasp that question, focusing more on the curve of her jawline as she bobbed up and down in the water. "Rey Niima," he said, and swam forward, bringing his face just to within a comfortable distance, then touched his throat beneath the water, a hungry look in his eyes.

"Oh, no you don't," she said. "We're not having a repeat of last week, thank you. And if you come near my throat again I shall have to ask you to shave that thing on your lip you call a beard: it is very tickly." She reached out to illustrate, poking gently at the hair there, and he pouted, nostrils flaring and eyes averted.

Oh. She was touching _him_ : she had initiated. That was an interesting reaction. Rey let go and pressed her hand to the hollows of his cheeks: he seemed to have lost some weight, and no surprise, if all he was doing was rolling about in a nest of her clothes for two days. "Kyolore," she tried, and his eyes snapped to hers, his body trembling slightly. "No, no," she said, averting her own eyes, "it's all right. Look. I won't hurt you. As if I could, either, but look." Gently, she stroked her thumb across his cheek, and his eyes widened, finding hers again. "I'm sorry you had to go through all that, Kyolore. I couldn't go. I just—it's not done."

He blinked, and his right hand, below the water, brushed across her left breast.

Oh, no: that was not _quite_ the message she had been intending to send. "Erm," Rey said, as his fingers tested the give of her breast and his massive thumb traced the underside, "I _really_ don't—can you—could you please—"

The calloused pads of his fingers found her nipple, and she shrieked in outrage, splashing and batting his hand away, then crossing her arms over her chest. "Stop!" she shouted, and Kyolore retreated, looking shocked, still up to his throat in water, but submerging further, up to his eyes, then blowing bubbles through his nose.

Rey understood: this was the second time she had reproved him, and the first time he had tried to communicate that he was not a threat by positioning himself lower until he had made her laugh—now he sank lower in the water and blew bubbles to elicit the same response. He did look very funny, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, making him perk up a little. He brought his head out of the water. "Rey Niima," he said again.

"Rey," she corrected, pointing at herself. "You can call me Rey. It's all right."

"Rey," he tried, and she nodded. "Rey. It's all right."

She chuckled at the imitation, and relaxed in spite of herself. "I certainly hope so," she joked. Well, it certainly wouldn't kill him to get a look at female anatomy: she doubted he'd ever had the chance before. _Only_ a look, she told herself. "Come here," she said, beckoning, and hoisted herself out of the water, sitting primly on the rocks. He swam close and looked up at her, eyes finding every feature of her body.

Right. She'd start from the top. "Shoulders," she said, patting them, then moved to gesture at her whole chest, sternum and ribs. "Chest." She cupped her breasts and patted them. "Breasts."

"Breasts," he repeated, avidly paying attention by now.

"Belly," she said, touching her stomach. "Hips." Both hands indicated the circumference of her, then pointed at her legs. "Thighs, knees, calves," she said, and held out her feet, wriggling her toes. "Feet," she said.

The water was not far below her, so Kyolore was able to reach up and touch her ankle-bone with a grunt, looking at her without coming out of the water.

"Ankle," she said.

"Ankle," he repeated, and his eyes went to the dark thatch of curls between her legs. A muscle in his eye twitched, and he looked directly at her expressionlessly, waiting.

Rey went red as a beet. "Oh—that is—that's—well, I don't know what to call it," she said weakly, feeling very put on the spot. "Erm. Ah. Oh dear." She frantically tried to think: every word she could imagine was far too childish or clinical, and she couldn't very well tell this man that it was a Cyprian Fountain, could she?

He saved her the trouble. "Mating-thing," he said gravely, as if _he_ was teaching _her._

"Ah. Yes. Mating-thing. I suppose." She very much wanted to hold her hands in front of her privates as if she had been caught out unawares, but she couldn't: he had the most extraordinary expression on his face, as if she was the answer to some cosmic question he had asked for a thousand years.

"Small," he intoned, curling his fingers gently around her ankle. "You heat. You come."

"I—what?" Rey blinked at him.

"Come me. _Me._ Kyolore." He thumped his chest beneath the water, making the water turbulent.

"Come… with you? When?"

"No," he said, shaking his head, and uttered a series of odd vocalizations, humming and grunting. "Mate-part. Time. Heat. You come Kyolore."

She spluttered, outraged. "I just _told_ you I can't go into heat—oh, my God, you don't understand a word I'm saying, do you? I'm wasting my time!"

"Understand!" he barked back, sharp and hoarse, and how had she not noticed how rough his voice sounded, how deep the circles under his eyes were? "Kyolore understand!" The tone was nearly identical to an angry _I'm not an idiot!_ and he raised himself out of the water, up to his waist, dripping and gleaming in the light, and pounded himself on the chest again, twice, his teeth bared in anger. To her great surprise, she saw scars across his chest and arms, scars that had been covered by the mud previously: mottled dark spots from deeply bruised tissue that had never fully healed. Then her mind caught up, and she realized he was _out of the water._

For a single moment, she thought: oh, perhaps I am safe after all; I don't smell a single thing!

Then, the scent hit her all at once, as if she had stepped off a curb in Convent Gardens and been hit by a hansom cab. All at once, everything she was had been scattered into a million pieces across the wet pavement, her mind no longer hers.

Low. Thick. Warm. Deeply rich and sweet and _burnt_ , like tobacco, like vanilla bean, like chocolate and earth after rain, everything she had ever loved in her life—it was coiling off the man in front of her, and she sucked in a breath of it, caring about nothing, _nothing_ except getting more of that delicious smell down her throat. She wanted to be consumed by it. She wanted—

"Rey." Kyolore's voice was low, cautious, and she sucked in another trembling breath, her nethers gone sopping wet, her body shaking as she came back to herself.

"You _idiot_ ," she gasped, unable to stop quivering, and took another helpless sniff, fighting a groan and clapping her hands over her mouth and nose as the delicious smell swept through her nose, her brain, her whole body. He grunted, put a hand to his neck, and dropped back down into the water, as if that could possibly negate the blood pounding so loudly in her ears that she thought she might go deaf. "I can't stay here," she panted, and scrambled away, fighting everything in her body that wailed for her to _go back, go back._ "I can't stay—Ama Yaa will _kill_ me, oh, what have I done—"

"Ama Yaa," he repeated, as she fought to get the cloth tied on, burying her face in the colorful weave and inhaling deeply. That was better: something to think about besides the scent of the man in the pool behind her, something to take her mind off it.

"I have to go back," she said, getting to her feet with some difficulty. At least it was easier to bear, over here and away from him. "I'm going back."

"Rey," he said, low and final. "When time. You find Kyolore. Understand?"

She could not answer, only staggered away, her arms full of cloth, and wept as she went, tears streaking her face.

*

The sensation of desperate need had faded as soon as she had gotten far enough away from Kyolore that she could no longer hear the water rippling, and she felt much better as she changed and went to Ama Yaa's house for dinner with the other women.

Perhaps it was only a false alarm, she thought as she walked along. She had never really come into close contact like that with any **A** man: a fact brought about mostly by the circumstances of her life so far—perhaps such an intense reaction was simply any reaction she might have normally had, as a result of hardly ever being exposed. At any rate, she did not feel feverish in the slightest, and had a good dinner with her companions—and did not speak of her meeting again with Kyolore.

She went to bed, and got up the next morning, and life went on as usual for the next several days, until she felt quite confident that the danger was over—but nevertheless, found herself thinking of Kyolore's stern face and strong body in moments that crept up on her, and quickly put them out of her mind.

After all, she had a task to do, and only a few weeks left to complete it.


	7. The Fever

Rey Niima woke out of a sound sleep in the dead of the night; agony clenching her middle like a fist, thirst wringing her throat dry, and sweat pouring down her face.

She sucked in a breath and yanked the covers off her legs, crying out in horror to see the pool of slick staining her fresh sack-mattress beneath her. A yank of her nightgown upward, and her worst fears were confirmed: she was soaked from her groin to her knees.

This was it, then: her _womanhood_ , and it had caught her with a vengeance about the throat. "No," she whimpered, pressing a hand to her belly. Everything felt horribly soft and swollen and tender, and she fought the urge to reach a hand down and touch it: it would do no good, she was sure of it. "No, no, _no_!" She could not help it: she jammed a hand between her legs and tried to muck about, but she could barely concentrate on what she was doing, and her gut wracked in pain, heat spreading through her body in waves.

_The fever. Fever. I am burning. I'm on fire._

Rey rolled out of bed, barely able to walk, and could only think of finding _him_. She could barely remember his name, but the memory of him filled her mind until he was all she could think about. She _wanted_ him: she wanted him to take her away from here and into the cool water and hold her close until it all stopped hurting so much, to take her, take her anywhere, take her on the ground like an animal—

She couldn't stop the cry that ripped from her mouth as she crawled on shaking hands and knees to the single window, covered by mosquito netting, and wailed, " _Kyolore!"_ as loudly as she could, clinging to the window-sill on her knees. Her voice, she noted from some very small part of her mind that was not entirely taken up with the awful heat, had changed slightly: it was fuller and louder. She did it again. " _Kyolore_! _"_

Another sound burst from her throat, a sound she'd never made before in her life, but one she recognized all too well, from Jess so long ago, from Saint Agatha's, wailing and moaning in a measured cadence. _The tonic_ , she thought dazedly, and dragged herself by her arms to the washstand, uncorking the bottle and gulping it down in one go, hands trembling. _Let it work, let it work. Oh, God._

It might as well have been water. Her body burned through it like nothing: there was no relief and no sedation, and she cried outright, flinging it away and curling into a ball, unable to stop the horrid sounds from spilling out of her mouth.

Time passed, not much time. Voices, voices from outside. Hands on her arms, gentle hands, firm hands, pulling her upright, feminine low voices. Rey cried and batted at them: let the leave her here, where he could find her—what were they doing?

"Up, Rainyima," said Ama Yaa, and the woman's voice got Rey to her knees, at least, before they carried her out of the house, down the steps, to the cool outside, to the earth. Ama Yaa said something to the other women, and Rey recognized the word for the place where the girls with the fever were kept; she writhed and cried and fought them. She did not want to go into the fever-house. She wanted Kyolore.

Some time later, inside the hut: nearly empty save for her—cool water on her head and neck and wrists. Someone was trying to make her drink, but she couldn't drink—her throat was too tight with crying out, and her thighs were soaked with slick, a new flood seeping out every time she wailed for him, every time her body fluttered and tightened and wrenched around nothing, nothing, nothing.

It was so, so much worse than listening to him cry for her. Rey curled on her side and panted, shaking and trying to gather her thoughts, but nothing worked, nothing served to stop the endless ache of wanting, and in her state she could not walk; she could not go to him. Was it still night? She did not know. The fever-hut was dim, the windows covered. Ama Yaa was there, singing softly, with some other wife-women: Rey cried and trembled and could not stop. Her nightgown clung to her legs like a second skin: someone wiped her throat and brow with gentle hands and the sensation of being touched was so great that she screamed out, shaking.

From outside, a roar of fury, deep and strong and hoarse, met her ears. It was followed by cries of terror and astonishment, and she _knew_ the sound: knew the voice it came from as well as her own. She choked on her own saliva and tried to sit up, but couldn't; then the door burst open.

In the dark, outlined in blurry black by the fires behind, she saw him.

*

The Chief-Woman said something, and Kyolore did not understand what it was, nor did he care: his Rey Niima was in her fever and she had cried for him, sang for _him_. He was here and it was time: that was all he knew, all he cared about. She lay on a folded cloth on the ground, her scent billowing off her in waves, the white thing she wore stuck to her with sweat and slick, and he beat his chest threateningly to the Chief-Woman before he picked her up (so small and light) in both arms, standing like a man. He towered over the Chief-Woman, and she looked up at him.

The Chief-Woman hesitated, dark eyes gleaming, then lowered her eyes, and he understood that gesture well enough. She would not stop him. He turned and left the fever-nest,that reeked of the Chief-Woman's scent, sharp and hot and dangerous, with Rey Niima before she could change her mind, and took her down the road, ignoring the cries of the People around him, before making it to the safety of the trees and the cover, in the wild deep jungle. There was no more Chief-Woman scent out here: only the scent of the woman in his arms, honey-sweet and fresh and good, good, good.

Rey Niima burned like fire against his skin, taking deep breaths as if she was going to bark at him, but did not make any noise, only clung tight. The nest, the nest: he would take her to the nest. She would be safe there. Quickly, he dropped to all fours, but kept one arm tight about her; she was weak and could not hold on, helpless and panting. _I will take care of you._ Kyolore did not know how to say it in a way she would understand, so he only redoubled his speed and moved through the jungle as quickly and as silently as a ghost.

*

Rey was laid down in the pitch dark on something soft and smooth and cool, then cried out as her nightgown rubbed at her breasts. Everything was too sensitive; everything hurt, everything hurt so much. "Off," she sobbed, plucking at the lace, "get it _off_ me—"

Two large hands willingly obliged, and the throat opened with a rip, the cool night air drifting across her sweaty chest, and she moaned again, her legs shaking and her thighs slick. "Time," said a voice above her, low and serious. His scent was drowning her: he had washed, and she drank in the burnt, sweet, thick smell of him, her thighs soaking again with a fresh wave of slick.

She could not think. She reached up for him, found with trembling fingers his chest, his belly, the thatch of coarse hair leading down to what she desperately needed most of all, and found him ready and willing there. It did not matter that it was likely the most savage and awful thing she was ever to do in her life, or that it would hurt, or that she could be sacked if the College ever found out: it only mattered that she find some relief as soon as possible, and her body was telling her that _this_ was the way to do it. "Kyolore," she whimpered, and he was trembling, too, chirping softly at her in the dark as he moved his body to cover hers and felt for her with a large and unsteady hand, spreading her swollen and slick flesh, finding the right place. The sensation was unbearable, but she would not have given a fig if he had torn her legs off at this point.

"Rey Niima," he murmured, and rolled her over onto her stomach, holding her hips steady as he found the proper way and _pushed_ , every nerve she possessed lighting up like firecrackers. A half-crazed shriek of ecstasy ripped its way out of Rey's throat as she scrabbled at the smooth cool thing they were on, but he bent his head, biting gently where her shoulder joined her neck, his scent surrounding her, drenching her. He grunted softly, panting against her, and kept moving, thrusting gently, but slowly harder and harder, his breaths coming quicker, his grunts deepening. Instinct told her to lie still, so she did, gasping for breath as every movement knocked the air from her lungs.

It went on and on. She couldn't bear it, but she did not want it to end. He was _big,_ so thick that it felt as if she was going to be split in half at any moment, and she would have gladly taken such a punishment if only she thought it would stop the agony coursing through her body. It did, to an extent, but not quite enough, and there must be _something_ , something to make it stop wholly—

Kyolore bit down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder, pushing deeply within her with a soft, muffled cry through his teeth, and then she felt it, swelling and locking them together, filling her completely and _finally,_ finally giving her relief, quenching the burn inside her gut. She felt her body answer, contracting down around him, full and tight, and they both cried out, stuck there together in the copulatory tie until it was over. Rey knew about that from textbooks, but never in a thousand years had she dreamed it would feel anything like this.

He let go of her skin with his teeth and sighed deeply, his forehead pressed to her bare neck. "Rey," he said, his voice hoarse. He was not crushing her, still holding his weight off her with his arms, but pressed against her gently, chest to back.

"I—I should have come to you straightaway," she stammered, the relief bringing back the ability to speak coherently. "I'm so sorry. You really—you came for me?"

He clicked his tongue and blew air against her heated skin. "Kyolore come," he said. "For Rey Niima. You sing."

"I see. Well. Next time when _you_ sing… I'll come," she said, feeling dizzy.

That seemed to please him: he let out a happy little hum and stroked her hair away from her neck. "Rey fever," he said softly, sniffing at the bedraggled and sweaty braid that hung down her back.

"Yes, Rey fever," she said. "I don't suppose you have any idea how long we shall be stuck like this, do you?" It was not uncomfortable, but being aware of precisely how much of a man's seed was spilling into one's body was certainly a foreign experience to her, and she was not sure she liked it.

"Rey fever," he repeated. "Kyolore make good." To emphasize, he rolled his hips slightly, and Rey moaned, the slight drag of the massively swollen knot inside her making her writhe under him.

Never mind. She liked it after all.

"At least you've washed," she said, when she could speak again.

*

It took fifteen minutes, more or less, for Kyolore to detach himself, and as soon as he was, Rey felt a dreadful sense of loss and the burning heat gathering deep in her belly, slow and sure, but it was not unbearable, nor would it be until he was ready to have her again. He lay down beside her, emanating heat like a furnace, the smell of him washing over her.

"Where are we?" she asked after a while of listening to his breathing, looking up at the stars peeking through the canopy. She did not want to think about what she had just done: she could barely see him in the dark.

"Kyolore nest," he said, a hand cupped firmly on her left breast.

"Oh." She squirmed a little: his scent was insidious, all over them both, dark and sweet, wet heat gathering in her groin again. "You made it?"

He did not answer, but grunted and sniffed at her deeply. "Rey wants nest? Make?"

"Maybe. If you give me this again." She let her hand trace across his groin, and he exhaled gently, then made to roll her over again. "Wait, wait," she said quickly, maneuvering herself to face him. "Like this." She couldn't see him, mostly just a dark shape in the pre-dawn light, but he got the idea very quickly when she pressed her chest to his and tugged at him, pulling him down on top of her in the nest of leaves.

He nearly crushed her, but he held himself up and entered her again, slick and hot and huge, and Rey shut her eyes, clinging to his shoulders and drinking in the delicious smell of him. There was no one but him to hear, so she let herself make as much noise as she wanted until he groaned again, burying himself to the hilt, and she tightened around his knot again, slaking the awful thirst for another few minutes.

Gently, Kyolore laid his head down, tender and tentative, in the curve of her neck and shoulder. The sun began to lighten the sky as they lay there, panting, and he raised his upper body a little to look at her. "Fever," he said, his thumb tracing under her eyes.

"Tired," she said, eyes fluttering shut. "I could sleep, now, I think."

He nosed at her hair, then deftly rolled her over to lie atop him, still locked deep inside her. "Sleep," he echoed, and she drifted off, completely safe in his arms.

*

It lasted the extent of the next day, and the night after that. She slept for a few hours at a time, and he was always there when she woke, ready and willing: they would come together again, four or five times in a row, and she would nap again before waking and starting it all over in an endless cycle. He would not sleep, but watched over her while she did: he clearly felt she was his responsibility, and she was glad of it. Rey was so sore and thirsty when she woke on the third day that she thought she'd never walk again, and Kyolore looked positively exhausted: he had barely recovered from his rut before having to take her through her ill-timed heat, and she felt guilty for it.

On the bright side, he had worked out about a hundred more vocabulary words, and it turned out he was an even quicker learner when copulation was on the table as a reward: she could nearly have full conversations with him now. He had gone to fetch them both food after he had brought her water, and Rey lay dozing in the wide nest of thick leaves, comfortable as anything except for her ravenous appetite, as the jungle hummed about her. As ways to lose one's maidenhood went, it was not very bad after all,although she wished she had a washstand handy: her legs were sticky and stained with faint streaks of blood, his seed, and enough of her own slick to coat her thighs.

How perfectly curious. She had always loathed the idea of finding the person who would send her into her heats, but perhaps she had always felt afraid of _not_ finding them, and simply pretended to herself that she was averse out of fear of the unknown: it was true that she enjoyed her studies, and she was an excellent botanist, but there could be more than one facet to a person's life, couldn't there? Perhaps she would offer to take Kyolore back to England: he might enjoy it, once she got him stuffed into decent clothing and got his hair cut.

The sound of soft feet walking made her turn over, peering into the morning light as he approached carrying a sling. "I brought fruit," he said, crouching in the nest and opening it.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, and he showed her how to eat a baobab, watching her with interest as she dug into a mango and the juice ran down her face. She caught his eyes fixed on her mouth as she sucked juice off her fingers. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he said, averting his eyes. "I need clothes."

"You do?" she asked, curious.

"Yes. You have them. The People in the—the village have them. I don't. But I'm a man, too." He shifted, sitting more like her, with his legs crossed and not squatting.

"I was just thinking of how you would look in an English suit," she said, smiling.

"How would I look?" he asked with interest.

"Oh—very strange, to me, I think, once you had got your hair cut and your—" she touched her chin. "Beard, you know, all shaved." She gulped down another chunk of sweet mango.

"I've seen an English suit before," he said thoughtfully, devouring his baobab.

"Really? Where?"

He looked at her for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable, then swallowed. "By the ocean," he said.

"When?"

"Long time ago." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I could show you, if you like."

Her belly was no longer gnawing with hunger, and she still felt sore, but intrigued. "Yes, I would like that. How far is it?"

"Far," he said, gesturing with his hands. "South, by the ocean. I was only there once."

"We ought to make sure we don't need to go outside the British territory," said Rey absently, "or else we might end up in French land and be arrested."

"Territory?" he asked, bewildered.

"Yes, you know—or, no, you don't, you wouldn't. All the great powers in Europe are fighting like angry cats over Africa, and I must stay in my own space, or risk being punished."

"Africa?"

"Yes, all this land we stand on, as far as you can see: that's Africa. Britain owns the land we are on now."

"How can anyone own a land?" Kyolore looked as if the concept had never occurred to him.

"You send a lot of your men, and they all have weapons, you keep anyone else from coming to the land, and then you use the land yourself for hunting or crops or what-have-you," Rey explained.

"That's very bad," said Kyolore, eyes narrowed.

"Yes—it is, I suppose," said Rey, who had never before found herself truly objectively looking at British colonization. "But—it's very good for Britain, and the other countries."

"Not for people _here_ ," said Kyolore, and blew air through his nose in a disapproving note. "Come with me, and I'll show you the British suit."

She really had no choice but to follow, in her torn and stained nightgown, damp with unmentionable substances; so onto his back she climbed, clinging to him, and he climbed a tree, then leaped from branch to branch in a graceful near-dance that left her breathless and terrified she would fall, but she knew he would not let her.

*

The sun was setting by the time they reached the coast, and Kyolore let her scramble off his back, then panted for a minute, catching his breath as they stood together, looking out to the stretch of rocky shore. He set his shoulders and nodded at her, and she followed him as he walked nimbly through the bush, until they came upon a rotting, curved hull of a ship—or half a ship, anyway: the ribs were jutting out of the hull and the whole thing appeared to have been broken in half.

Rey darted up to it in amazement. "Why, it's huge," she said. "It must have wrecked itself years ago."

Kyolore took no notice of her, but circled the ship, digging into the sand at a certain spot and coming up with a shallowly-buried small chest. It had no lock, and he lifted the hinged lid as Rey came round his back to see what he had got.

Inside the chest was a faded photograph: a man and a woman with a small, dark-haired toddler on her lap. With it was a small diary and a Bible, both molding about the edges. "There is the British suit," said Kyolore, pointing at the man in the photograph.

The man was indeed wearing a suit: out of style, of course, strictly eighteen-sixties, and he was clean-shaven, with a hat. His face was stern in the photograph, but he had been handsome, with a finely-formed face and a full mouth; the woman had large round eyes, dark hair, arched brows, and a small thin mouth that seemed ready to smile at a moment's notice. Rey brushed her finger across the tintype, afraid to pick it up. "Who were they?"

"I do not know," he said, eyes lingering on the woman's face. "Sometimes I think—I think I see her. In my mind, or in my dreams at night."

"You don't come here often, do you?" Rey picked the Bible up and opened the cover, glancing at the names inside. "Let's see: 'Captain Han Solo, married Lady Leah Organa of Stokeclere, England, 1869.' Well, that's a start. Stokeclere is in the south of England, I think."

"There is something behind it," Kyolore told her, handing her the photograph.

Rey turned it over, squatting in the sand, and read aloud, "'Capt. Solo, Lady Organa, and Benjamin Andrew Solo, aged 3, January 1872'. How strange! I wonder what happened to them."

Kyolore turned about, looking at the curve of the shattered ship. "They must have died," he said softly.

"I hope not." Rey peered closer at the baby. "What a sweet little chap. Look, his ears…" She trailed off, then looked at Kyolore quickly, then back down at the photograph. The child in the photograph was indistinct more than not, and the tintype was speckled with age, but Rey was almost sure that the faint spots on the baby's face were freckles or moles of some sort, or birth-marks, not the deterioration brought about by salt-water and sea air—and the ears were unmistakable: large, even for a child, curved outward. The age could be right, or close; 1872? That would make the child now in his late twenties, nearly thirty. "Kyolore," she said hesitantly. "This baby... is it possible at all that it might be _you_?"

He did not react for a moment, then backed away slightly on his knuckles and feet, eyes gone distant. Rey picked up the diary and opened it carefully to the last few pages, as the delicate paper was damp and mildewing, but still readable. " _Eighteenth_ _of June, 1872. We are nearing the Coast of Africa, rounding the Western part, and once we have passed it only Lisbon remains as a Port between us and Southampton. My dear Wife has recovered from her sea-sickness: my little Ben remains as sturdy as if he were on dry land—a sailor like his father, through and through."_

Kyolore remained perfectly still, listening to her.

" _Nineteenth June, 1872. The Captain here, Calrissian, states a nasty storm may be blowing in off the Atlantic, what he calls a 'huracan': I have faith that the Falcon shall carry us through it swift and strong. Dear Leah has slightly recovered, and spent to-day bouncing little Ben upon her knee, singing to him. The sunset was ever so glorious tonight."_

Then, the last entry, scrawled so hastily that Rey could hardly make it out:

_"23 J. we have put Ben into a cork-basket as Moses of old—dear God may he be saved from the wreck!! I put this now into the chest with him—may God have mercy on us all: may my son know how much he is loved and how our hopes rest upon him!"_

"There is nothing after that," said Rey softly, holding the fragile pages in her hands.

They sat there together in perfect silence, she in her ruined nightgown, he in nothing but his skin, and listened to the waves crash on the shore, the wood of the hull creaking overhead.

"We ought to go back," she said nervously at last, "before someone comes and sees us: it won't do to be arrested for trespassing." Kyolore still did not move, and she turned, intending to say something else, but halted in surprise when she saw that there were tears on his cheeks. "Are you all right?" she asked. She had never seen a man weep: certainly not one of his sort, and certainly never so openly.

He wiped a hand across his face and looked at the drops on his palm as if he did not know what they were. "What is a sailor?" he asked gruffly.

"A—a person who sails," she explained, "on boats—things designed to float on water and cross great distances."

He hummed softly, rocking back and forth a little. "We can sleep here," he said. "Up in the bush. We can't go back today."

"No, it is late," Rey agreed, setting the diary back into the chest with the photograph.

"What is—" he grunted to himself for a moment. "What is _love_?"

"L—oh," said Rey, feeling a pang of sympathy. "It means, well, I suppose it means that you feel very great affection toward another person."

"Affection?"

"Yes, affection. The thing in your heart that makes you do this," she told him, and knelt down in front of him, taking his face in her palm gently and stroking the poor roughened, sun-weathered skin on his cheeks. "Or this," she said, and pressed a kiss to his nose, then his forehead.

"When I stayed awake," he said, "to see you through your fever."

"Yes, like that. Love can mean you put away something you need, to give someone else something they need. You might feel it towards your family, or your dearest friends." She blushed a little, and he cupped her cheek in his palm, looking at her face. His hands were so large that they nearly covered her head wholly.

"I love you," he said quietly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh—erm," she gasped, red as a tomato. "I do—I am flattered, thank you, but—"

"You should stay," he said, a pleading tone in his voice, fingers creeping to cup the back of her neck. "Stay here. Stay with me. I'll build you a good nest. I'll bring you fruit every day, and meat when I hunt. You can have all the leaves and flowers you want—I saw them in your place, I know you like them."

"Kyolore…" Her eyes filled with tears: how cruel it was. "I can't. I must return to England in two weeks. My guide is coming for me—or is it a week? I lost track of time—oh, God." She shut her eyes, and he got closer, clicking his tongue in concern. "You wouldn't come back to England with me?"

"I don't know England," he told her. "If you go, who will I sing for?"

"But you were born there, surely that means something: you had a mother and a father who were British and named you Benjamin Andrew; for surely you know that now—"

"I don't know that name," he said sullenly, pulling away from her. "My name is Kyolore. _Kyolomprenu_ , Twice-footed: He Who Stands in Two Places At Once. I do not know what this other one means, and I will not take it."

"Son of my right hand," said Rey quickly, remembering. "Benjamin, son of my right hand. Andrew, a brave man—they're good strong English names, or, well, really they're Greek and Hebrew—"

He slapped his hand on the ground with an angry grunt. "I am _not_ of this land that sends their weapons and men to steal ground from the People, and I will not take the name it gave to me. _This_ is my home, Rey Niima!"

Rey felt deeply stung: what must he think of her, then? "All _right_ , there's no need to shout—"

"I will shout if I am not heard!" he bellowed, thumping his chest. "You do not hear me!"

"I _do_ hear you!" she shouted back, slamming her own hands on the ground. "You don't want to come with me, you don't want to hear me sing for you again: you want me to go far away and leave this land, because it is my people that brought the weapons and took it and steal from it—I hear you!" He looked shocked and hurt, eyes wide, and they stared at each other in silence. Tears were flowing again down Rey's cheeks, and she buried her head in her hands. "You don't love me," she wept. "You don't know anything about love; you only know how to m-mate. You're a—a s-savage, awful, wild man, and you don't belong in England at all, any more than I belong here."

He looked at her as if he had been utterly betrayed. "I stayed awake for you," he said. "You sang for me. You belong with me."

"I don't," she snapped, incensed. "I _don't_ , I can't, it's impossible: and I don't care what Herodotus wrote about two thousand years ago or what any of the bloody onomasiologists say today. I can't stay here with you and you won't come with me, so we are at an impasse."

" _You_ won't stay with me," he corrected, "and _I_ can't go to England with you."

"I bally well can't—" she started, and buried her knuckles in her eyes for a moment before shooting him a glare. "Look at me," she demanded. "I've barely been here two months and I'm squatting on a beach in my _nightgown_ , which is torn to bits and ruined, and my hair isn't even dressed; I smell horrible because I haven't bathed in days; I've got your—your _seed_ running down my legs like some back-alley woman of the night; and you intend to send me away ruined. I said I don't belong with you, but I'm wrong. I'm being bullish on purpose because I'm angry. I simply can't _have_ anyone else but you: it won't work, that's part of being what I am. I'm not—compatible, you see, with anyone else in the world but _you_ , and that's all there is to it."

"Then stay," he said, as if it was the most obvious explanation in the world.

Rey was tired of fighting. She gave up, lay down on the sand and rolled over, her back to him, pleasantly shaded under the rotting wood of the hull. It was cooler under there, and the breeze was caught inside, lifting her sweat-damp hair off her shoulders. She would comb it and braid it again later when she had the time.

Outside, Kyolore grunted a few times, nervous and unsure of what she was doing, then advanced. "Up in the bush," he said. "Sleep up there. It's safer."

"Go away," she said, curling into a ball.

"Rey—"

"I said, go _away_!"

He hooted a little, sad and morose; then she heard the soft swish of the sand as he plodded up to the tree line and left her there, alone under the hull with only her thoughts and the old chest to keep her company, inside which Benjamin Andrew Solo's parents, on their little tintype, stared out serenely into eternity.


	8. An Ill-Fated Encounter

Rey woke with a start, feeling as if she'd been woken by a gunshot. She sat up quickly, dazed, and noted that the light had changed: it must be morning, and she had slept all night in the sand under the hull. Kyolore was nowhere to be seen.

She looked further down the beach, screening her eyes with her hand, and saw to her horror that a small party of soldiers was marching along, likely on an early morning patrol: but were they French or were they British? _Damn me, I didn't think to check!_

She hid herself as well as she could, squinting to make it out as they came closer. Khaki uniforms, not the red and blue of the French: thank God! She sat up and clutched the rags of her nightgown about her, realizing she was entirely naked with sand crusted in her hair and feeling as if she had just been thrust back into a wild nightmare. What on earth was she to do?

In the end, she was saved from having to do anything, for one of them spotted her and shouted, waving at his fellows. She put a hand to her head, very much aware of how dreadfully savage she must look, and waited as the men approached, interest and confusion on their faces.

" _Geht es der gut, Fraulein?"_ asked one.

Oh, bloody hell. They were Germans, not British: she must be in Togoland. "I—I am sorry," she stammered, clutching her nightgown tighter. "I mean—I am lost."

" _Sie ist Englisch_ ," said another to his fellow, eyes lighting on the bite-marks across her shoulders and neck. She clapped a hand to them, face scarlet with embarrassment. " _Glaubst du, sie ist eine ihrer Huren?_ "

" _Schweigen!_ " snapped a man who shoved his way from the back, and all of them obeyed at once, looking down and shutting their mouths. He had gold braid draped across his breast and looked very fine, and he doffed his hat to Rey, exposing a head of bright coppery hair. His face was pale and sunburnt across the high points, but finely formed, and his eyes were green. "My apologies, Fraulein—pardon, it is Frau?" For he had caught a whiff of her, and the other men all looked at each other, baffled: they smelled her too.

"It is _Frau_ , yes," said Rey with as much dignity as one could muster, sitting in the dirt and naked as Eve. Damn the Germans: only such a fastidious people would speak a language that demanded descriptions of one's designation in forms of address! What a horror. "Frau Rey Niima, if you please, _Herr_ …?

" _Oberst_ , Frau Niima; _Oberst_ Armitage Hux, at your service entirely." He gestured, and all the men turned around at once to give her privacy; then he unbuckled his belt, and Rey drew back in instinctive fear of the gesture, but he only stepped back to give her space and took off his coat, handing it to her. "There, now you shall not die of exposure. How did you come to Togoland without being seen by patrols?" German he might be, but his English was impeccable: perhaps he had studied at an English university.

"Through the jungle," she said, putting her arms through the sleeves. "I confess myself very lost." The **A** scent of him wafted about her face: almost like brandy or cologne, seductive and sharp and deep. He had clearly risen through the ranks in no time, she thought: already a Colonel, and he could hardly be ten years older than she.

"That you are, certainly. Well, we might ask questions later: we have a fortification camp close by and you would certainly like refreshment? Clean clothes, perhaps?" Oberst Hux extended a hand to her.

"Yes, please," she said gratefully, and took his hand.

*

The camp was magnificently luxurious to Rey's sensibilities. A hot water bath with good strong soap, a cup of tea and a thick sandwich, and a clean pair of slightly too large men's trousers and a shirt: all were given to her at once and she emerged from the tent they had settled her in clean and no longer hungry, feeling half-human again.

Two guards escorted her to Hux's tent, which had been set up rather like a field-office, with a desk and folding chairs and fine carpeting on the ground. She sat and folded her hands in her lap as he turned in his seat and smiled at her politely. Rey rather wished she had pins to put up her hair, but it could not be helped: it must be braided, and it hung down her back in a long, thick rope, still damp.

"Ah, Frau Niima," he said, and inclined his head. "Has everything been to your satisfaction?"

"Very much, _Oberst,_ thank you," said Rey with a smile to answer his. "It is only a pity that they had no shoes to fit me, but then again, I doubt you would find any _Schutztruppe_ about with feet as small as mine."

He chuckled. "Ah, you would be surprised: we have some little _Knabe_ fellows who are small as women among us here."

That was intriguing. What on earth could the Germans want with O-men in their ranks? "Really? You must be very progressive indeed: the Brits don't allow such a thing. They say it is bad for morale."

"Morale," scoffed Hux, and drummed his fingers on the desk. "No, no, on the contrary, they are very good for slipping into places quietly and unseen, my dear Frau. Every man has their place—and every woman, I should think, yes?"

"I suppose," said Rey, slightly caught off guard.

"You must know it was a great surprise to my men and me to find you," he said, pouring himself a little brandy from a fine decanter. "A woman of your sort, all alone in the wilds of Africa, looking as you did? There must be a fine story behind it, Frau Niima."

"Well—yes," said Rey, trying to keep her face perfectly blank. "I—you see, I am a botanist. I came from Oxford University, on a two-month expedition, to study the flora and fauna of Africa here."

"A botanist!" Colonel Hux exclaimed. "And you are, I assume, some form of zoologist, if you were studying fauna?"

"Not so much," she admitted, "as I have only really studied insects, for understanding insects, you see, is vital to understanding the plants about them: it is all quite fascinating—they must depend on each other, in a way."

"Indeed. And how then did a little botanist find herself ashore in German Togoland?" Hux tossed the brandy back all at once.

"As I said," she explained, "I came through the jungle. I am very far from where I ought to be."

"And where is that?"

"An Ashanti village, about four hours train-ride northeast of Accra."

Colonel Hux stood, consulting a map, and tilted his head. "You walked twenty-eight miles, all by yourself, in the jungle?"

"Was it that much?" Rey asked, feeling almost stifled.

"If it wasn't thirty, yes," he said, and set the map down. "And how did you come to be walking about in your nightgown, Frau Niima?"

Heat suffused her cheeks. "I—" She did not have an answer, and all the ones that popped into her head were ridiculous: therefore she remained silent.

"Allow me," Hux said, and set the map down. "We both have noses, Frau Niima; I shall be frank and crude if I must. It is a known fact that British _Frauleins_ are frigid and unwilling, while the _Fraus_ are the opposite: hot-blooded and loose in their morals—"

"I do beg your pardon," said Rey frostily, but he was not to be deterred.

"—so, I can see what has happened; you have allowed yourself to be overcome with wanton desire and taken some African _Herr_ as a lover for a time. Perhaps he dragged you off to the shore and had his way with you, perhaps you led him on a wild chase. At any rate, you are trespassing on German land without proper papers, and I ought to call the  _Polizeitruppe_  at once to have you arrested as a spy."

"A _spy?_ " Rey demanded, more outraged by that singular accusation than any of his speculations upon the state of her morals. "And what, pray, was I supposed to spy with, or to take down notes on? You found me in my nightgown!"

"Of course," said Colonel Hux, as if mulling it over. "You are a _Frau_ : you were sent to seduce the officers here, or whoever you might find on patrol. Of course, you got lost, but perhaps your plan was to be brought here all along, yes?"

"Absolutely not," said Rey, almost furious. "I am a botanist, not a spy, and I wasn't _sent_ by anyone."

"Mmm," said Colonel Hux, eyeing her in a way that made her spine go cold. "Well. Perhaps you are, perhaps you are not. What I tell the _Polizeitruppe_ depends entirely on you, Frau Niima."

"I don't know what you mean—"

"Oh, yes, you do," he said, circling the desk and sitting on it, bringing him uncomfortably close to her knees. She leaned back stiffly. "We are like the plants and the insects, my dear _Frau_ ; you and I—we must depend on each other. You are familiar with the work and theory of Galton?"

"Oh, you mean his papers on standard deviation?" asked Rey, purposely being obtuse.

Oberst Hux was not to be deterred, however. "No: I mean his work on historiometry, the studies of dysgenics and eugenics. He puts forth, you see, that people like you and I, my dear _Frau_ , are people of a higher kind than those who are unlike us."

"I am familiar with those works," said Rey thinly. She did not think it prudent at the moment to go into great detail about her opinion of them.

"We are a people made to conquer and dominate the world," said Hux, a wild light in his green eyes. "The marriages of such as us are more likely to produce healthy children who share our particular characteristics: we shall breed a mighty race of _alpha_ Europeans, bred and raised to _conquer_ those below them who were made so by nature—"

"You are completely mad," interrupted Rey, standing up so quickly she flung the chair out from behind her. "I shall not listen to any of this for another moment: it's worse than a bloody lecture-hall. _Below them_ , indeed."

"It is the future," said the Colonel, and he seized her by the arm. "You cannot escape it." His pupils were wide and black, the green of his irises lost, and his scent filled her nose.

Rey struggled, but his grip was like a vise. "Let go of me at once, or I shall scream!"

"Scream all you like; my men will not come to your aid. I will not allow you to be touched by any of them: you are mine now, Frau Niima!" He dragged her to him and kissed her on the mouth, and she bit down on his lip so hard it bled, the coppery tang of it filling her mouth and washing away the seductive smell of him from her nose. Oberst Hux dropped her arm, both hands coming up to cup his mouth, and he yelled in pain. "English bitch!"

"Only when I'm at home," said Rey, and turned on her heel, running for it. Past the canvas flap, past the guards, who were too slow to catch her: she wove in and out of the camp, making for the tree line. Oh, how could she have been so stupid? "Kyolore!" she screamed, vines scratching her bare feet. "Kyolore!" Just a few more yards, and she would have made it into the deeper jungle, where they could not find her—

She never saw the net. It was heavy, rope as thick as her arms, and it crashed into her, knocking her to the ground and entangling her in it. Rey struggled, but only got herself enmeshed further, and resorted to kicking and shouting as she was lifted by four men, all laughing among themselves.

No answer from the jungle came; it remained as silent and green as ever it had been.

*

They did not do her the courtesy of knocking her unconscious: they tied her to a stake in the center of the camp and gagged her, so that she could not shout. "Kyolore, eh?" asked Oberst Hux (with some difficulty, past his swollen lip). "The name of your guide here, or your African paramour, I should think? Whoever he is, he shall not be bothered with you anymore—!" and so she was tied, mute and helpless, scowling daggers at any man who looked at her.

The day beat down on her head, baking her scalp; her jaw ached with the gag in it. Why, _why_ had she quarreled with Kyolore? He must be miles away by now. Rey tried very hard to keep a stiff upper lip as the hours ticked by. All the Sisters and the Directors and everyone had been right: a woman like her had no business out here in the wild: she was only going to get herself killed or attacked.

 _But I killed a leopard_ , she thought suddenly, and sat up a very little straighter, trying to keep from falling asleep in the hot sun. _I killed a leopard, and I very nearly escaped this place, anyway—if I had been quicker and more nimble I would have made it away and into the jungle._ What would the Ashanti have named her, if she had been in Kyolore's place? For that matter, would she be the same person she was now, if she had been lost as a child and raised herself to survive in the wild? How much of a person was truly nature, and how much was upbringing?

 _I am clever. I know I am._ She had tried to outwit the Bishop, and nearly succeeded: she had failed at outwitting Hux, but that had been because she had not seen him as an enemy from the beginning: there was her failing. In the jungle, everything was an enemy. She had not learned that yet. _We are like an insect and a plant, we depend on each other…_ It was so, so hot. She drifted into a drowsy dream, a dream where she was back at Saint Agatha's, feeling the rain on her cheeks as she ignored the nuns telling her to come inside: there was a peculiar plant with stinging nettles growing in the garden, and she intended to name it _Obersthuxius,_ but it would not keep still, and kept its leaves going round and round, slapping her hands, stinging them, stinging her face…

Rey woke to the golden light of late afternoon, her skin feeling baked and tight, and saw a group of soldiers marching off into the jungle, rifles over their arms, chatting amongst themselves. What were they doing? She blinked, trying to focus her vision. How peculiar: Hux seemed to be heading them up. She was still guarded, the soldiers standing at the tent-front beside her had their eyes trained on her, so it was no good to try to run for it: she ought to be clever and quiet.

Rey turned toward the guards, putting her hands out of their sight behind her back, and began to fiddle with the knot in the rope about her wrists. "Mmmph," she called out, trying to sound pathetic.

One of the guards laughed at her and said something to his companion in German, and the other man chuckled, then shook his head at her dismissively. Clearly they had been ordered to leave her unmolested, so that was at least a point in Hux's favor: it did not raise his marks very highly. The knot was tight, but Rey felt she could manage it, if she could just have a bit more time. She kept her fingers working, and took care to not move her arms. Minutes ticked by, and she had managed to loosen one of the loops as the soldiers came marching back in, laughing and dragging something in a sack behind them. Her arms burned from the unnatural position by then, so she paused to watch. Perhaps it was an ape? Whatever it was, it took three men to drag, and must be very heavy. Hux brought the rear up, rifle casually pointing over one shoulder, and paused, looking at her.

"Halt!" he ordered, and the men paused, sweating. "Frau Niima, would you like to see what we have found?"

 _Not particularly,_ she wanted to say, but having been deprived of speech, instead turned her head, looking steadily in the opposite direction. Likely some dead animal, judging by how it lay in the sack so heavily and still, and she had seen quite enough of that already. Noises alerted her to the sound of scraping and dragging, and she turned her head to see them bringing whatever it was toward her. "Come now, Frau," said Hux, sneering, "it will pique your scientific interest. For here we have found a wild beast so clever it has learned to talk; yes, and even to say your name!"

Horror filled Rey Niima's throat as they untied the sack; inside was the limp and heavy body of Kyolore.


	9. Escape

He was not dead.

That was the greatest relief to Rey, which soon became her greatest worry all over again: they had chloroformed Kyolore after beating him to the ground with the butts of their rifles, and after dragging him to an open-sided tent near the place she was tied up and staking him to the ground by his wrists and his ankles, they photographed him and measured every part of him.

"This is a momentous day for Germany," Hux intoned, overseeing the entire process. "The Kaiser will make us rich for this. We have found the bridge between Ape and Man, and he is an _Alpha_ : truly the natural state of Man is to dominate and we have proved it!"

 _You've done no such thing, you bally idiot!_ Rey could only sit and weep silently, tears soaking her gag as she worked at her bonds until her wrists were raw and sore. They pulled out shears and began to cut his hair, and she cried to see that, too: all his thick black locks that she had thought distasteful fell to the ground and were crated as a specimen. Without his hair, he looked very forlorn: his ears stuck out even more, and they laughed at him. They shaved his face, too, joking about making him a true German in English so she could understand, and Rey wanted to be sick.

When they were done, he lay very still: short and uneven locks of black hair just long enough to brush the tip of his ears and half-cover his brow, face as smooth as a boy of twelve. His jaw looked very weak without the beard: crooked and small and strange.

Hux stood and walked over to her, then dragged her gag off. Rey gasped in a breath and coughed, spitting out sand. "Frau Niima," he said, "this creature seemed to know you quite well. He called out for you, and the perfume of you was all about him. I expect this is your _Kyolore?_ What is he?"

Rey was very still, trembling, eyes fixed on Kyolore. She did not trust herself to speak for a moment, then gathered her courage. "You are wrong. He is not a missing link," she said, and saw Kyolore's chest pause in its measured cadence of breath before Hux slapped her across the face hard, stars sparking in her eyes.

"I will _not_ be contradicted by some English _Frau_ who fancies herself a scientist. You have studied his behaviors, then? Taken notes?"

"Yes, I have," she said, tears in her eyes from either the pain or the anger; she did not know which. "But of course all my weeks of research and notes on him are useless, of course; you will not be interested in the slightest in any of his language skills or how he has learned to use tools, or the behavior of—of Alpha males in the wild, would you, Oberst Hux?"

That got him to the quick. Hux gave her a steely-eyed look. _There,_ she thought vindictively, _I have offered you what you are most obsessed with: take the bait._ "Tell me about his behavior," he ordered.

Rey set her shoulders, still looking at Kyolore. His left eye, the one closest to her, opened the barest hint, then shut again. She turned her attention back to Oberst Hux. "He learned, as far as I can collect, his behaviors and communication methods from Great Apes," she said. "He sees direct eye contact as aggressive, and—and will strike the ground, or himself, to intimidate opponents. He is an excellent mimic of any creature imaginable—he has mastered tool-making, and has made a flint-knife, and uses it to skin animals he hunts. He respects the territory of other—other Alphas, be they male or female, and will not go to their land."

"Mating behavior, Frau Niima," snapped Hux, eyes bright and piercing. "Tell me about his mating behavior."

Rey tore her attention away from the very subtly moving wrist pinned down to the ground only twenty feet away and looked at Hux. "He—he does not often go into—into—" Oh, she could hardly say it, damn the man! " _Rut_ , but I witnessed one from afar. He—he vocalizes, and will venture into the territory of another Alpha to pursue a mate."

"Does he engage with other Alphas to fight them for women then?" demanded Hux, a wild sort of excitement on his face.

"No. At least, not that I noticed, or was told—"

"What? _Noticed?_ " Oberst Hux leered down at her. "Ah, I see now. I had thought the English _Fraus_ loose and wanton; I had never thought one would stoop to tumbling about with a wild man in the jungles of Africa. I must say, you were likely a breath of fresh air for him after the baboons and the n—"

A high-pitched scream from one of the petty officers was all the warning they got from the tent; then Hux was gone in a blur of ginger hair and khaki uniform as Kyolore hurtled into him at great speed, the broken stakes dangling from his wrists like bracelets. Rey screamed and huddled to the side, still struggling to get free from the stake, and shielded her face as the two men grappled, kicking up dirt.

" _Gehen weg!_ " shouted one of the other officers, and they withdrew instinctively, watching as their _Oberst_ fought with the wild man. Rey spit dirt out of her mouth—the bloody **A** idiots, watching a pair of other idiots fighting over a woman: it was no wonder God made **B** 's, otherwise people would get _nothing_ done—and finally got out of the bonds, scrambling away to hide behind a crate.

Hux held tight to the trailing rope still tied to Kyolore's wrist, trying to get his arm pinned behind him, but the other man was taller and leaner, and better at close-quarters fighting. Kyolore flung his forehead against Hux's nose, blood running down the Oberst's face like a river. Hux lost his grip and Kyolore seized his wrists, forcing him down inexorably.

An audible _crack_ followed by a scream from Hux rang across the camp. Kyolore let go of him and pushed him to the ground, curling his lip in disgust, and drew himself up to his full height, letting out a roar and beating himself on the chest. Rey gaped: was that it? It was over?

" _Steh nicht einfach da, du Narren_!" screamed Hux, clutching his arm as he writhed on the ground in pain. "S _chießen ihn_!"

 Kyolore's eyes found Rey—he took a step—

The report of a rifle rang out, shocking Rey out of her dazed state, and Kyolore started for a moment. He looked down at his side, where blood was welling, and pressed a hand to it in confusion, looking at his own blood on his hand, then searched the huddled soldiers with his eyes. One man stood with a rifle, pointing it at him and shaking like a leaf.

Something primal woke inside her, and Rey lost her mind entirely. How _dare_ these people lay a hand on _her_ Kyolore; how dare they shoot at him and treat him like an animal? She raced for the soldier before Kyolore could move, and the unfortunate Private turned to see her flying at him and screaming, teeth bared, before her hands closed around his throat and she knocked him to the ground, choking him with all the strength in her body as his mouth opened and closed like a fish beneath her.

What happened next was all a mass of confusion: soldiers shouting and bellowing in German, hands dragging at her, red fury all she could see or think of until _his_ scent found her and she was letting go and then she was running, running and running with _him_ and they were in the cool shade of the jungle again, the shouts of the soldiers fading as they lost them.

*

They did not stop running together until the afternoon had faded to evening, and by then Rey was sobbing for air, a pinch in her side, her feet bleeding from scrapes and her body sore. Kyolore silently took her up in his arms and kept going, going on and on until they reached a small river, the water cold and burbling. He put her down on the bank and looked her over carefully, head to toe, wrinkling his nose at the scent of Hux clinging to her clothing, but otherwise making no effort to communicate to her, or even to look her in the eyes. Blood stained his side still, but had crusted over and dried: it did not appear to be a serious wound.

"Kyolore," she began, drained. "I'm all right. I'm so very sorry."

He grunted and moved down to the river, cupping water in his hands and drinking deeply, then washing himself, washing away the blood; his large fingers carefully exploring the new terrain of his head without its long hair, his face without the beard and moustache. He turned back to her, looked her over again, cupped his hands, filled them with water, and brought it to her, holding his hands to her lips.

She drank, and nothing was or could ever be as sweet as fresh, clear water. He fetched her more, and when she was sated, he crawled down to her scraped and bleeding feet, humming to himself and dashing water over them, examining every scratch.

"I'm really all right," she protested weakly.

Kyolore took no notice of her and went back down into the water, washing himself clean all over and coming back up the bank to her. He sniffed at her shirt, making another face, and she sighed. Well, false modesty benefited nobody. She unbuttoned the thing and shrugged it off, and his eyes went to her throat, her breasts, her belly. One broad hand reached up and touched the sore spot on her face with surprising gentleness; likely it was red where Hux had struck her.

"I do want to keep the shirt," she informed him eyes downcast as she set it aside. "I don't intend to go about naked—if I rinse it in the river, will that get enough of the smell off it for your liking?"

"No," he said finally, and his eyes found hers at last.

"Shall I take the trousers off for you, too?" she asked, rather sarcastically.

He did not understand sarcasm. "Yes," he told her.

Rey sighed, unbuttoned the front, and tugged them off, sitting on them to shield her bare rump from the jungle floor. It was a good deal cooler out of the wool, but she felt horribly exposed anyway.

Kyolore came a little closer. "The man," he said, and Rey knew immediately which man he meant from the tone his voice took. "He thought he took me. I knew you were where he was going. I smelled you on him. I let him take me."

"You let yourself be chloroformed to find _me_?" Rey asked.

"Yes." He shifted from side to side. "He hurt you."

"Not badly." Rey looked away. "I thought—I thought he was going to force me. He was _mad_ , talking about children and mating and Europeans ruling everyone—"

"You don't want children?" Kyolore asked, sounding as if he was trying to understand.

"Not with _him_ ," Rey snapped. "He tried to kiss me, too, the brute: I bit him for that."

"I was thinking, why did the man have a wound on his mouth," said Kyolore, and his eyes narrowed as if he was thinking. "What is _kiss_?"

"This is _kiss_ , you bloody moron," said Rey with some heat, and wrapped her arms around Kyolore's neck, mouth moving across his. He stiffened under her arms at first, unused to the sensation or the idea, but softened again as he understood and let his wide, plush mouth go pliant under hers, his arms pulling her closer, breast to chest.

He broke it first, his breath coming quick and short. "You still smell like him," he said morosely, and she sighed.

"Then I'll wash," she said, and drew away, trembling a little. "Just don't go anywhere. Stay here."

"I'll… make a nest," he said quickly, his eyes dropping to the ground, and she hid a smile behind her hand as she turned away to go into the water, Kyolore behind her gathering leaf and branch as if it was his one duty in life.


	10. "Please"

Rey came up out of the water, thoroughly scrubbed clean with sand, and stood for a moment, appreciating the nest Kyolore had built while she had been bathing. It was deep, soft and big enough for two, with half of it screened from the elements by thin leafy branches, snugly forming a sort of shelter. Its builder crouched nervously at the front, waiting for her approval.

She pretended not to see him, and went into the nest, looking at the clever workmanship that he had put into lashing the branches together, the vines, the springy mat of leaves. Rey knelt to peer at the base of the branches. His scent clung to the place, warm and sweet and strong, and it made her mouth water. She turned around on her knees and looked at him, and he shifted from side to side, seemingly on tenterhooks to see what she would say.

"It is a very good nest," she said, and some of the tension left his body. "Very strong. Well done. Come here."

He was inside the nest almost before she could blink, and crawled up beside her, sniffing at her appreciatively and making those little chirping sounds she vaguely remembered he liked to make when he was thinking about mating. "You're happy," he said.

"Yes. Now, you likely have a hundred questions about those men—"

"I don't want to think about them," he said, his lips very close to her throat. He inhaled and exhaled, and Rey shivered.

"It's important—to me that you know they weren't English. They were—Kyolore, _really_ —German—"

His breath ghosted across her bare shoulder. "I want kiss."

She had to fight a smile. "You want _a_ kiss?"

"I want _a_ kiss," he corrected quickly, and ducked his head, bringing it closer to her mouth.

"You can have one when you listen to me," she told him, hands stroking his shoulders so that he would know she wasn't denying him. He gave her a dolorous, long-suffering look, and patiently withdrew, gazing at her. "Right. Those men were German, and we—the English, I mean—don't much care for them anyway, so don't think that all English men are going to be like that."

"You said I was English," he reminded her.

"Yes—"

"You think English men are better than these Germans?"

"In some ways. They—the Germans certainly make better sausages."

Kyolore shifted again, biting at his lower lip, then his upper one, sucking at them. "You like me better than English men and German men?"

She wanted to tease him, but couldn't bring herself to do it. "Yes."

"Even…" His hand came up, ruffling at his shorn hair, and his eyes were downcast again.

Rey reached up and stroked the damp black strands, uneven and ragged. They streamed through her fingers like black silk thread. "Yes. And here." She traced his chin and lip with her thumb, feeling the smoothness of his skin. "It's only hair."

He exhaled roughly. "But now I look English."

"What?" He looked as far from English as anyone could be at the moment.

Kyolore huffed again. "You said when my hair was cut and I was shaved I would look strange and English."

"Oh—I did, didn't I?" she replied, and felt guilty.

"But you don't like English men more than me," he explained, as if she was not grasping something momentous. "I look English now. So you won't like me—"

"Oh, _no,_ " she said, shocked, and cupped his face in her palms. "Of course I still like you."

"You shouted at me to go away," he said, voice trembling.

"I—I didn't mean it," she told him, stroking his cheeks. "No, I was angry. I was angry because you said you would not come with me, and I was wrong to be angry. You were right. You can't go to England. They would—they would lock you up there. They'd be nicer about it than the Germans, but a golden cage is still a cage. No, you should stay, and I go back."

"If Rey Niima goes, Kyolore will die," he said desperately, hands curling around her arms. "Don’t go."

"I'm not going now," she hasted to amend, "just…soon. Not now."

"Stay here now," he whispered, pulling her in close. His body thrummed with heat and life, and she embraced him, burying her head in the curve of his neck and shoulder (how strangely untouched his upper back and neck were by the sun!), breathing in his scent. "Rey. Stay here now."

"Lie down on your back," she murmured, her belly in knots. It was a sleepy day: there was nobody around for miles and they were safe. He hesitated, unused to the position, but slowly obeyed, splaying out under her on his back with his belly exposed, shaded under the bower and reclining slightly.

Rey flung a leg across his waist, paying no mind to the goings-on below (which were certainly very interesting) and crouching over his chest. "I should never have said you didn't know what love was," she whispered, and kissed his cheek. He made a soft sound and tried to chase her mouth down with his, but she was too quick. "You're not a savage." Another kiss, this one on his bare chin. He grunted softly, but did not move. "I said love was putting something away so you could give it to someone else. You do love me, don't you, Kyolore?"

"Yes," he said, eyes half-shut. "And you love me."

"I—"

"You put your hands around a throat for me. You put away escape to see me safe." His broad hands found her waist, the fingers stroking up and down, slowly, firmly, as if she was a creature that needed to be gentled. "Rey loves Kyolore?"

"Yes," she whispered, unable to deny it. "Yes, Rey loves Kyolore."

He chirped softly and tugged at her, pulling her down to his face, and this time the kiss was not strange: his mouth was soft and warm while his body was rough and hard, and his hands explored her all over, slowly and carefully.

She broke to gasp for air, and he looked down at her breasts. "I want…" he trailed off, not knowing how to say it, and she took a hand and guided it to her chest, letting him cup the plump firmness of her in his palm. He sighed happily, and kneaded them, then pulled her up his body and reached his face up, nuzzling and licking at them as if he could not get enough.

Rey found herself becoming damp and hot between her legs again: but it was not the desperate, mindless urgency of heat. This was gentle and slow, and she felt that she could stop if it she so desired. "You like them?" she asked, shivering as his shaven cheek rubbed against her nipples.

"Yes," he said hoarsely, tongue flickering out, lips closing down, suckling, lapping. "You smell different here."

"Good different?"

"Yes." His wide, rough tongue rasped up the outside curve of her breast again, his warm cheek pressed to her skin, and she gasped, biting on her lip tightly: she was still rather sensitive after her first heat, but still wanted nothing more than to have him again, this time without the senseless writhing and begging, perhaps. It did not matter anymore: she was ruined anyway.

"I want this now," she managed to squeak out, reaching behind herself awkwardly and patting at the swollen and very firm flesh between his legs, as ready and willing as he had been the night he had taken her first. "Can I have it?"

"Wait," he moaned, face still buried in her breasts.

"Kyolore," she insisted, her hands tightening in what was left of his hair. " _Please_."

"Don't know _please_ ," he said stubbornly, eyeing her from below.

"You most certainly do—"

"Is _please_ this?" He dipped a finger between her thighs, and Rey squeaked in outrage, trembling as his finger stroked about the outside, spreading the wetness gathering there around. "Rey wants _please_?"

"Rey wants—" Rey struggled to gather herself and drew back, shuffling back down his body; his face was slick from licking at her breasts, which were suddenly very chilly in the air, nipples tightening. He eyed them with interest again, but forgot as she settled herself at the tip of him, the slick between her thighs easing the way. "Can Rey have this?"

Kyolore swallowed, his throat exposed to her. "Please," he whispered, and she drove him home, listening to him cry out, feeling him shudder as he seized her and held her close. His face went strangely blank, his body working furiously to thrust into her as deep as he could, and she stroked his face softly, crooning to him.

"Slow down, slow," she whispered, and he did his best to obey, to override the instinct overtaking him, until they were moving together in a soft, gentler cadence, his hips rising and falling. "There. Good." _Oh_ , how good it was, but she could hardly tell him that. The very front of her was rubbing against him, and she felt she was grinding toward some great finish, and could only keep going until whatever end there was found her. "Now, just—just—stay like that, if you can, for a few moments—only a f-few more moments—"

"Rey," he said intensely, hands tight on her waist. "Your face is red."

"It—it's—" She flushed from her forehead to her breasts, panting. "Just—don't stop doing that—" He was rubbing deep inside her, somewhere very good, and she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to stop whatever was coming. "Kyolore— _Ky—"_

She lost the power of speech as climax, bright and warm, drenched her from head to toe, and cried out savagely, arching her back and tightening down on him of her own accord as he clung to her tightly, making little soft noises as she came down and slumped atop his chest. "You're hurt?" he asked anxiously, hands drifting up and down her back.

"N-no," Rey panted, "not so much. Ooh. You can do what you like now. My God." Kyolore took that at face value and sped the rhythm up, bouncing her up and down on him as he groaned and held to her tight, his fingers so strong she thought she might bruise and did not care a whit. "Talk," she demanded, screwing her eyes shut as the sensations threatened to overwhelm her again. "I like to hear you talk."

"What—talk—" He was gulping down air, clutching her tight.

"Tell me how it feels," she whispered. "I don't know what it's like for you. Tell me."

"Ah—ah—" Kyolore sucked at his lips and groaned again, slowing his cadence and trying to focus. " _You_ tell. No words for me now."

"You're so _thick_ ," she said almost immediately, "and it's so good; I feel I'll shake apart but I d-don't care—and you smell so delicious, like something sweet, vanilla gone all smoky. I want to eat it."

"Rey," he whimpered, and sped his movements. "You… smell like honey, the flowers, the—the grass. Sweet. Good. _Good_ —inside, w-wet, good, _hot_ —" His voice cracked into a boyish note, and she nearly came apart again right then and there as he lost his speech and descended into grunting again as he climaxed and swelled inside her, locking himself deep inside as he spilled over and let out a series of high, desperate, shaky little sounds.

She rested atop him, contracted tightly about his body in the tie, and tried to remember how to breathe. He didn't say much, only stroked softly at her back, as if unsure he was doing it right, and they lay together like that until it was all over, but even then they did not pull apart.

"Kyolore will die," he said, soft and sad. "When you go back."

"I can't see another way out of it. I'm sorry." Rey shut her eyes and rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"Kyolore will die… but Benjamin Andrew Solo might live," said Kyolore, and Rey raised her head in astonishment, listening. "He goes back with Rey Niima. He wears an English suit. He was lost and is found again, and he goes back to England. He will make her a nest in the forests there. Or a—a house, if she likes."

"You would do that? For me?" Rey could hardly believe her ears.

"I love you," he said very simply, and she buried her face in his neck, weeping until he rocked her, cooing softly in harmony with the sounds of the jungle around them.

*

They returned to the Ashanti village the next evening, Rey dressed in her stolen German shirt with the sleeves torn off and wrapped about her feet to protect them and Kyolore wearing the trousers and his bag slung around his shoulder. The trousers were too small for him—but he had insisted that if he was to return to the People as a man, he should act like one and dress like one.

Ama Yaa came out first to greet them, and the very first thing she did was give Kyolore a sharp _whack_ with her woven sandal. She had to jump to reach his face, but that did not make it sting less.

"You fool boy!" she barked, tears in her eyes. "You steal our guest for _days_ and make me bad host!"

Kyolore did not move to fight back, only looked down, and Rey stepped forward. "Please, Ama Yaa," she said, "it was my fault: I sang for him—"

"He no _have_ to come," said Ama Yaa sharply. "You worry me, Rainyima: we all worry sick. You with child?" She dropped her sandal and seized Rey by the cheeks, looking at her with worry.

Rey's cheeks burned. "I—I do not know," she said. "I have lost the days."

"You went a week back. Fever over yet?"

Scandalizing! "Really, Ama Yaa, right in front of Kyolore—"

Ama Yaa laughed. "He a man full grown, he knows about babies. No matter, your first fever: not always a baby. You come with us, we wash you clean and get clothes. _You_ —" and here she turned on Kyolore, who cringed slightly, "you go with the men and get yours. Ungrateful. We feed you and name you and you steal our guest." She added another string of Twi that did not sound very nice, but immensely more eloquent.

"I am sorry, Ama Yaa," he said, head still hanging. "I brought a gift."

"Gift? What gift?"

He reached into his bag and pulled out a wad of leaf, tied tightly with twine and still fresh. "Scent-herb," he said, and her eyes went wide. "You know this?"

"I know this," she answered, and held out her hands to take it.

"Enough for all the husband-men. I can show you where to find more. It covers the respected wife-women, too. And if eaten—stops heat, stops fever." His eyes were wide and afraid, as if worried she would not accept the gift.

"Good gift," she said approvingly, and tucked it into her belt. "You stay. We talk at dinner."

*

"I should like," said Rey that evening, gathered about by the fire after they had finished telling their story to the village, "to take the scent-herb back to England with me, if it is all right with you, Ama Yaa."

"With me?" Ama Yaa looked at her pensively.

Rey nodded. "Yes. It grows in Ashanti land. I do not want to take something from the land without your permission."

"This British land now," said Ama Yaa, looking into the fire. "You take anyway." Her tone was not angry, only very straightforward. "If I say no, you take. If I say yes, they come with—" here, a string of words in Twi— "and root out tree, tear out land, ruin crops. I am Ama Yaa. I know."

"If you say no," said Rey quietly, "I will not take it."

Ama Yaa gave her a sideways look. The girl squatted in the dirt as comfortably as if she had been born to it: draped in clean Kenta cloth and her leopard skin with her hair braided down her back, her bone-colored face too sharp and pointed to be really beautiful, but truthfulness lived in her heart. "No," she said thoughtfully, "Rainyima not take if Ama Yaa say no..." and here, she gave her a sly look, "for Ama Yaa is chief-woman, and Rainyima is only respected wife-woman."

Rey laughed at the jab, but Kyolore peered at them across the fire, looking insulted at the lack of respect to his mate. "Rey Niima killed the leopard. Rey Niima choked a Germ."

"Germ _an_ ," corrected Rey, flushed.

"German. Respected wife-women are stronger than men, I think." Kyolore returned to eating, and Ama Yaa chuckled, eyes rolling.

"I no need _Kyoloremprenu_ to tell this. I know already."

"I will have a new name," he said, looking into the fire.

"What name?" asked little Kwaku James.

"My father and mother gave it to me already, but I had lost it," he explained, and a murmur of understanding went up around the fire. "Here, I am _Kyolomprenu_. I was born Benjamin Andrew Solo, and my father called me Ben: that is my name now."

"Benjamin," echoed Ama Yaa. "A good and righteous name. Then stand, Benjamin, and let us see you."

He got to his feet, the fire playing on the strange angles of his face: he looked old, then young, then another person entirely. Everyone looked at him, and Rey felt her heart stir softly under her breast: _her_ mate, hers and hers alone, and everyone could see him now. "Kyolomprenu is dead," he said. "Benjamin Solo lives, and will go back to England with Rey Niima."

"You take him to house," said Ama Yaa gently as Benjamin Solo sat down. "He fears the journey, and you must give comfort: he is only a man, after all."


	11. The Return

The bed was not wide enough for the two of them, as he was large enough to warrant a bigger bed on his own, so Rey and Benjamin curled up on the floor together in a pile of blankets and sheets. It was so odd to think of him as _Benjamin_ now, and not _Kyolore_ : it made him stranger than he had previously been to her, in a way. He fingered the shorn ends of his hair and curled up on his side, humming tonelessly to himself as he lay there.

Rey set the lamp on the floor and turned the wick down, leaving them in a dim golden glow. "Something's troubling you," she said softly. "What is it?"

He inhaled softly, taking in her comforting scent. "England," he said. "How do we get there?"

"Well," she said, trying to think. "We shall walk away from this village and to a depot; there a train shall come for us, and we will get on it and ride on it to Accra—"

"What is Accra like?"

"It is a very, very big village," said Rey, who had forgotten to explain the word _city_. "Hundreds and hundreds of people. It is a port, which means boats come in and out on the sea—"

"Boats," he said warily.

"You needn't worry," she hastened, "about the boat: we will be on a steamer, and it is so large that storms cannot sink it. It is only a pity that we do not have the chest with the diary and the picture and the Bible. It would have made things a good deal easier to explain."

Benjamin sat up, glancing at her sideways and going for his skin-bag. "Here," he said, and took out all three artifacts, looking at her with something like anticipation. "I have them."

"You—" She gasped, snatching them up in delight. "Oh! When on earth did you find the time?"

"I went back before I let the Germans take me," he told her. "Hid them in the bag."

"You brilliant man," she said affectionately, and kissed him on the cheek. "I can read the diary: then I shall know all I can about your parents."

"After the boats, what then?" Benjamin scratched the back of his neck.

"Well, the steamer might stop at some other ports along the way, but it shall take us to London. We get off there, and once we're in London I suppose I shall have to verify your identity with someone official—perhaps your parents had a solicitor, that's someone who handles all the important work of family matters and such. After that, it's up to you entirely: you may have to go to Stokeclere to work out any problems. Someone else may be living there."

"I don't understand." He tilted his head.

Rey chewed at her lip, thinking. "Well, you see, great families in England have great houses, and when someone dies, their child inherits the house. But if the child dies, or is believed to, then it must go to the legal next in line, and that could be a cousin, or an uncle, or anyone, really."

"Oh," said Benjamin, realization breaking over his face. "So I must fight another man and get him away from my nest."

Rey fought a giggle. "Goodness, you won't have to fight him, no. You'll give him a letter from a judge to evict him—that is, if he even exists, which we don't know yet. The house might be standing entirely empty."

"You will come live there with me?" he asked hopefully.

"I can't say for sure now," she said gently, "but I should like that very much indeed."

"Where do you go when we go to London?"

"Back to Oxford. I have a paper to present to the Board of Directors, and if Ama Yaa allows it, I will take the scent-herb to give over for medical research. It could change lives, you see: being able to block heats and such. It might even change society."

He nodded, but looked sad. "You won't stay with me?"

"I can't," she explained, "it's not done. Women who aren't married don't stay with men who aren't married."

"What is _married_?"

"Oh—a legal binding. You must go and stand before a judge, and promise to never be apart from each other and share everything with each other and such, and you give each other a ring: then you are a lawful member of each other's families and you may live together." Rey lay down on her side, and he followed suit, looking at her intently. "Or you can have the wedding done in a church—that's a sort of special building for religious ceremony—"

"I remember weddings," said Benjamin. "The missionary did them sometimes. Flowers. I remember the flowers."

"Did you come to see them?" She was still burning with curiosity to know how on earth such a young child had survived the jungle, but he only grunted and shook his head, rolling over in the blankets. "Benjamin?" There was no answer. His back, half pale and half sun-browned, rose and fell, and Rey reached out a hand to press along it gently, stroking the deeply incised lines of the muscle there.

"They threw me out," he said quietly, and she didn't stop stroking him. "I can't explain in these words."

"They? Who are they?"

"My family," he said, and rattled off a string of animal grunts that were unlike any language Rey had ever heard before. "My family."

"Were they…" Rey, struck by a thought, got up, heading over to her books and pulling out her (by now very much dog-eared) volume about Great Apes in Africa, turning to a page and crouching by Benjamin. "Like this?" She pointed out the printed picture of a chimpanzee.

"No," he said, shaking his head as he looked. "Bigger."

"These?" She turned to another page, pointing at a bonobo.

"No," he said again, brow creased. "They…" He picked up the book himself, flipping through pages carefully so as not to tear them, and grunted softly when he found what he was looking for, turning it round and letting her see. "This. This is my family."

Rey looked down. _Lowland gorilla_ , read the caption, directly under a hulking black ape with a massive build. "My God," she said weakly.

"They cast me out," he whispered. "I was… it was my fault."

"What do you mean?" She stroked his hair gently, and he leaned into her touch.

"My… body," he said haltingly, "it changed, and they all changed toward me. I could not…" he grunted again, and Rey felt that the sounds must be a name of some kind. "He, he cast me out. The mothers… they could not understand my scent. They would not listen to him when I was near. I could not fight any of them—I was too small. He beat me and he cast me out."

"Your scars," Rey murmured, setting the book down and pressing her hand to his chest. "He did that?"

"Yes." Benjamin shut his eyes. "I went…to the missionary. I was afraid, but I knew the People were like me. I listened from the jungle for weeks. I learned to speak. I watched the missionary say his words and pray, teach, do weddings, do the water-thing—"

"Baptism," Rey supplied helpfully.

"Yes, and he said, do good for the poor and needy. I understood his words by then, so I came to him. On the path, as he walked. He—" Benjamin's eyes slipped away, to the side: his face went blank. "He drove me out, away, and all the People saw me. I saw Ama Yaa there, and she was not pleased with the missionary. She was not the Chief-woman then."

"What happened to him?"

"He left. He said he would come back, but he did not. Ama Yaa… she found me years later. By the river. I smelled her, and she saw me with the scent-herb on my neck, and she knew I was driven out. She left me food every night so I did not starve." Tears fell from his dark eyes. "I knew to stay away. Not to take a mate. Or she would cast me out like they did, too. But I took _you_." He found her eyes again, confusion and pain written there. "Why did I take you? I knew not to. I knew better. I stayed away for so long."

"You couldn't help it, I expect," Rey said kindly. "I'm—well, there's a sort of person sometimes with people like me and people like you, who don't really have—fevers, you know, they don't sing unless they meet the person who is the best mate for them."

"You were the first mate I ever took," he said quietly, and her heart leapt into her throat. "I only want you."

"Well," she said, "I suppose we shall have to get married once we're in London, but heaven knows how long that's going to take with the estate being worked out."

"Do you want—flowers?" he asked, perking up slightly. "What flowers are in England?"

"Oh, ever so many different sorts," she assured him, and began to talk eagerly of violets and roses and peonies as the evening deepened and he listened with rapt attention to every word.

*

Finlay, the guide, returned precisely on time the next week, and listened to the wild tale with which Rey filled his ears with a mixture of incredulity and shock. He met Benjamin and took a liking to him surprisingly quickly, and offered his services as a guide back to London, which Rey accepted in the next breath: who better to help Benjamin understand the intricacies of society than someone who had also had to navigate its perilous waters? They ordered Benjamin a new suit and a full case of clothing on Rey's dime, and additionally acquired him a haircut at a barber-shop.

She sent a telegram to Dameron at once as soon as they reached Accra: _ENORMOUS HUGE NEWS STOP WRITE AT ONCE STOP R.N_. Hopefully, it would reach the Congo in time for her return to London.

They ran into a bit of a sticky situation upon reaching the port: German soldiers headed up by none other than Oberst Hux, with his arm in a sling, blocked their path and presented her with a letter bearing the Kaiser's seal, demanding the return of "the specimen known to us as _Kyolore_ " upon which Rey informed them politely that such a person did not exist, and that the very tall gentleman in the linen walking-suit beside her was Benjamin Andrew Solo, an English lord, and as they were in British territory, they had no power to remove the gentleman from his place. Finlay, who could, it turned out, speak German and was much less polite, got very colorful with his instructions on where precisely the soldiers, Oberst Hux, and the Kaiser could put their letter, and with that being said, all three of them boarded the _Golden Star_ , the steamer which would take them back to London, leaving the furious Germans behind.

As it turned out, Benjamin Solo was an exceptionally seasick sailor, who spent most of the time from Accra to Lisbon heaving his guts out into buckets below-decks while Rey patted him sympathetically and listened to him groan. Finlay, to whom sailing was old hat, had brought plenty of books and read to him, intoning on and on about the Kings of England and the aristocracy, peppered liberally with his own opinions on the matter, and Benjamin lay on his side listening desperately: anything to distract him.

Rey spent her days walking about the ship when she was not furiously working on her scientific paper about the scent-herb and the other various flora she had catalogued. For yes: Ama Yaa had given her the herb, a good pound of it, and sternly instructed her to take care of it.

"Are you sure?" Rey had asked, seeing the sadness in the other woman's eyes.

"I am sure," Ama Yaa had said, "for if they British not come for this, they come for wood, or crops, or water: they always find something to come for. You take it, Rey Niima."

So she had, and dried and pressed it very carefully, after reassurances from Benjamin that it would not lose its potency. On and on she wrote, day after day, caught up in her work so that if the ship had been burning down around her she would not have noticed. She also read the little diary front to back, discovering that Benjamin Solo's mother had been a lady of means, from a fine family, and discovering the name of their solicitor, but no other great details about the family history were forthcoming.

She and Benjamin had been given separate staterooms, as was customary: he shared with Finlay. Benjamin did not care for this arrangement, but Finlay made him understand that he could not go into Miss Niima's room in the middle of the night when he just _felt_ like it, so all in all the voyage passed without much scandal, and a week and a half later they found themselves all three disembarking onto Southampton shores, breathing in the fresh sea-air.

Benjamin did not care for it: he eyed the rattling carriages with suspicion, he could not understand why the horses were not set free, he did not like the noise of the city. To make matters worse, somehow the story had leaked to the English press, and the headlines were splashed with the discovery of " _KYO-LO: APE-MAN OF THE JUNGLE!!"_ on every corner, featuring a badly-done woodcut of a wild man with a loincloth on, strangling an alligator. Rey privately blamed Oberst Hux, and wished to God that she had shot him dead.

Fortunately, however, nobody seemed to suspect for a moment that Benjamin Solo and this Kyo-lo were one and the same, so they were able with relative ease to check into the train back to London and get aboard with all of their bags, settled comfortably in their compartment.

"Finally," mumbled Finlay, resting his head against the back of the seat. "Now, once we're in London, we part ways with Miss Niima, I take you to your father's solicitors, we discover what we must, and—"

"No," said Benjamin firmly, eyes fixed on Rey. "I will not leave Miss Niima."

Rey took a deep breath. "Mr. Solo, you must understand: you cannot come with me to Oxford. I will reunite with you and Finlay once we work out what is to be done about your situation, but—"

"I don't want to go," he insisted, hunched forward on his seat. "I want to stay with you."

The door opened and the tea was served: Rey took hers good and hot with sugar and milk. Benjamin sniffed at his once the door had shut and sipped at it cautiously. Finlay showed him how to add sugar, and his expression changed at once—he gulped it all down very quickly. "Benjamin," she continued, quieter, "you must go ahead of me with Finlay to make the house nice if you can. Then when I come, I will be ever so surprised and pleased to see what you've made of it."

"That's true," said Finlay, leaning in conspiratorially, "women do love little gifts and things like that. You'd like to surprise her, eh, Ben?"

Rey fought a stab of slight and surprising jealousy at Finlay using such a familiar nickname for him, but decided that what truly mattered was whether Benjamin felt at ease with it, which he seemingly did. "Yes," he said, looking at Rey again, "but…" and his eyes dipped down to her skirt.

They had already explained in painstaking detail that one did _not_ say such things as "but _why_ can't I take you on the floor" or "I want to mate with you right now" in public in polite society, but the hungry and desperate look in his eyes spoke far more than words ever could. Rey cleared her throat and set her empty cup aside.

Finlay looked from him to her and stood. "I think I shall go get some air," he said. "Be back in a minute." He stepped up, doffed his hat, and went out into the corridor, shutting the door behind him.

Benjamin was on the other side of the compartment before Rey could take a breath. "I don't like it here," he whispered, curling up awkwardly in his suit with his face pressed to her neck; then inhaled her scent deeply, moaning very quietly, and breathed in again. He wanted comfort, and she could not give it.

"It's all right," she said softly, trying to embrace him without tearing the seams at the shoulders of her tight-fitted bodice. "I promise you it shall be all right. I know it's a lot to process—"

"Please," he begged, hot breath coursing down her bodice. " _Please_. I want—"

"I know what you want," she said quickly. "But we can't, not now: we're on a train for heaven's sake. It's not safe."

"Too many people," he agreed, and grunted in displeasure. "Can I have a kiss?"

His scent really was overwhelming: Rey had noted the envious little looks from the other women on the train. Even the B's, it seemed, had noses. "All right. Just—"

No sooner had the words left her lips than Benjamin was pressing his own to them: lush and soft and gentle, hungry as his teeth closed on her lower one. She pressed her tongue gently along his lower lip and he groaned, then pulled away, pupils dilated. "More," he said, a pleading whine in his throat.

"Not until you go with Finlay and work out whatever the situation is with the estate." She very much wanted to give him _more_ , but propriety won out, and she pressed her thighs together under her skirt.

"It's been weeks," he mumbled, and she had just opened her mouth to reprimand him before realizing—it _had_ been weeks, hadn't it? A week between her heat and the return to the village, a week between the return and the journey to the port, a week and a half on board ship—and there was no sign of her courses yet, not even a speck.

_Oh, God._

"I know," she said, trying to keep herself quite calm. She would go see a discreet doctor somewhere, away from Oxford, under a false name, and then depending on what transpired after, she would allow herself to think about that. "I shall do my very best to make it up to you when I find you again. Is that all right?"

Benjamin eyed her balefully, and sank back into his own seat, looking grumpy. "Yes," he said. "That's all right."

"I will write to you," she hastened to add. "Every week if I can. I simply—I must just get my paper finished and fixed up and sent to the Department of Biological Sciences, and after that I'll be free to join you."

"You won't send me away," he said, soft and careful, and she heard the unspoken fear there of being cast out and abandoned yet again.

"No!" She reached across the compartment, seizing his big hands. "No, of course not. I love you."

That seemed to do it: his whole frame relaxed into acceptance and he nodded. "Good."

"Did you think I was sending you away? I would never do such a thing, on my word. I will find you again." Rey kissed his hands on impulse. "Don't ever think for a moment we shall be parted forever. I couldn't bear it."

"Rey," he breathed, but then Finlay came back into the compartment, smelling of fresh outside air, and they had to sit quite apart, gazing at each other across the space between them.

*

They departed the train in London, and the last thing Rey saw of Benjamin Solo was his pale, strained face behind the closing door of a hansom cab, sitting beside Finlay.


	12. A Shocking Discovery

Rey Niima set her finished paper down on the desk of the Director of Horticultural Sciences and stepped back politely. "It is finished, sir."

"Excellent," said the gentleman, looking at it with some excitement. "I shall read it at once and share it with the Director of Botany—I hear that you have made some very exciting discoveries? All the papers are most anxious, my dear Miss Niima."

Rey inwardly groaned. All the papers wanted to talk about was the savage Kyo-lo, Wild Man of Africa. In the month that had passed between their parting of the ways, he had made headlines: _Lost Heir to Stokeclere Found Alive_. Someone had put two and two together and identified Lord Stokeclere as the mysterious Kyo-lo, and now it was all anyone wanted to talk about. Rey could not open a paper or a magazine without being confronted with some cartoon of a man in tails and a hat fighting a lion, with a caption like _Lord Stokeclere Taking his Afternoon Tea_.

She had gotten letters from Finlay, and then from Benjamin himself, in uneven childlike writing that improved very much in both neatness and articulacy over time: it turned out that he was owed every pound his parents and grandparents had owned, quite a healthy sum, in addition to ownership of the house and the grounds about it and the title of Earl of Stokeclere. They had sallied off to Hampshire as soon as the lawyer and a doctor had confirmed his identity (which had been touch-and-go, until Finlay had discovered a note in Captain Solo's diary about a birthmark on the back of Benjamin's thigh and upon inspection it was unmistakably the same), and now had set about the task of cleaning and refurnishing the old house, which had been shut up when Captain and Lady Solo had died.

"Yes," she replied, coming back to the present, "I have: not the least of which is an herb that masks the distraction of scent and of—certain biological situations, you understand, in particularly designated individuals. I would hope that the Department takes the patent which I have filed into consideration: I believe it would be a great boon to all mankind. You will understand more when you read the paper."

"Indeed, indeed," said the Director. "Well, you have shocked us all, I must say: Doctor Phasma will be insufferably smug about it for years to come, and the Bishop goes about already with a face as long as a horse's. I shall read your paper to-night, if I must stay up until the morning to do it, and I shall let you know what will be done about it."

"Thank you, sir," she said politely, and left feeling very satisfied indeed.

*

The sensation of fulfillment dissipated like fog on a cool morning when she dropped by her post-box and found three things waiting: one, a letter from Benjamin—the second, a telegram from Mr. Dameron, the third, a letter from Dr. H. Kalonia, the physician she had seen in London. It was addressed to "Mrs. Leah Williams", the name Rey had given upon arrival, and she tore it open as soon as she had got back to her rooms and locked the door. It was quite no-nonsense and straightforward, much like the lady herself had been.

_Mrs. Williams,_

_Your symptoms are consistent with the first trimester of pregnancy. Be advised that according to the information you produced upon your visit and the results of the physical examination you are likely about eight or nine weeks along, and ought not to lift anything over ten pounds until the thirteenth week, nor perform any labor or activity which is stressful upon the body or mind. You may call again at any time in the event of further concerns._

_Cordially,_

_Dr. Harter Kalonia_

Rey's heart tightened into a knot, then dropped into her stomach. She sat heavily on the bed and tried to breathe, her face flush with heat: _pregnant_.

It was not fair. It was some cosmic joke, it must be, and she could already feel the bars closing her in forever and ever. She had suspected, of course, after five weeks without her courses beginning, but having the plain and unquestionable truth right in front of her was as final as a death-knell. Eight weeks. She quickly crossed to her calendar and counted back. Then she must have conceived—the first night, or close to it, anyway: the night he had taken her away—

"Oh, God," she said aloud, tears welling up. She had to tell him. She looked at the calendar again, and quickly counted forward, week by week, eight to forty. Then her due date…would be in early December. A Christmas baby— _no_ , not a baby, a nuisance, something that would get between her and her work. A nuisance…who would have Benjamin's eyes, perhaps, or freckles: brown or black hair—no, no, it was going to be a wreck, she wasn't _married_ and she was pregnant— _pregnant!_

Quickly, Rey ripped open the other letter, the one from Benjamin, and began to read it in an effort to take her mind off it.

_Dearest Rey—_

_Finn_ (that was what he called Finlay now, as a joke: he had told her so in an earlier letter, saying that if his name could be shortened to Ben then Finlay could be Finn and so they should get on easier) _has helpt me with this letter but not so much as the Last one. we have cleaned the Whole of the house from top to bottom and made it very fine. he has a sense for nice things, which he tells me is called Good Taste. a confusing phrase as nothing is put in his Mouth. I am told ladies sleep in rooms separate from the men in fine houses such as This so we have made such a Room for you here. I hope it is to your satisfaction. I found a great many things about the House when we were cleaning and I would like to sort through them with you when you arrive. it appears I was born in Cape Town which Finn has showed me on a Map. I have also put ~~much~~ many fine Plants in the Garden outside for you. _

_I would also like to be Clear on the matter we spoke of before departing Africa, that of marriage. Finn says that there is nothing Stopping us from marrying here in Hampshire at the village Church on the estate land and I would like that Very much still if you wish. I am very Anxious to see you again. I hope the College likes your work enouf to let you come away to me. Please tell me how it gets on._

_Sincerely your_

_Benjamin_

Rey held the letter for a long moment, then set it aside and picked up the telegram from Dameron.

It read: _GOT ALL NEWS STOP COLLEGE IN TIZZY STOP WHATEVER HAVE YOU DONE STOP I MUST HEAR ALL ABOUT IT STOP COMING HOME IN FORTNIGHT STOP P.D._

She laughed in spite of herself. Mr. Dameron never could let a good rumor go to waste. The date on the telegram was nearly a week past, so perhaps she could wait out one more week and greet him. After all, her paper was still being read, and there was no great hurry—

Oh, never mind: there was a great hurry. Her _child_. Rey's hand went to her belly and she stifled a scowl: the thing was barely living and had still managed to throw a wrench in all her plans. No, if she was wise, she'd marry Benjamin directly and as soon as possible: that way nobody would question their child being born a few weeks "early". 

But would he _want_ a child? Rey cast back in her mind, and the only thing she could remember him ever saying about children was when he had asked her with some confusion if she wanted them—and hadn't that been directly after Oberst Hux had menaced her? What had she said? _"Not with him"_ had that been it? But had he been confused that she did not want them, or simply trying to understand her rambling speech on the vices of the man? Should she speak to him directly, or would he be angry?

"He's not like ordinary men," she assured herself aloud, looking at the wall. "He won't accuse you of coming for his money, at any rate. He loves you."

She paced back and forth for a bit, until she settled at last on a plan. She would wait until her paper was accepted, and see what the College had to say—then she would go at once to Hampshire and tell Benjamin everything, and invite Dameron to join them there once they were (hopefully) married. Yes, that ought to work out nicely. Rey sighed, sat down with a sheet of stationery, braced herself, and began to write to Benjamin:

_My dearest Benjamin:_

_I cannot tell you how glad I am that you and Finlay have settled in at last. I have only just submitted my paper to the College, and after they tell me what they shall do with my research I will join you at once in Hampshire, which I look forward to with great anticipation: I do still intend to accept your offer of marriage. I also have a Gift, which I am bringing with me: I hope you will like it very much and I am most anxious to give it to you. If it is not too much trouble I should also like to invite my friend Mr. Dameron to visit after we are married. He is an old friend from the College. I spoke of him to Finlay once: he is a Linguist, and spent much time in the Congo studying the native tongues there. He is quite eager to hear our tale and to meet you._

_I shan't sleep a wink until I know what is to be done with my research, so I must stop writing and pace about with worry until the sun comes up, but I remain ever your very own_

_Rey Niima_

*

"I don't understand," whispered Rey the next Wednesday afternoon, trembling in front of the Board. It was like her first meeting, where she felt as if she had been on trial, only now a great shock pervaded every sense and made her weak in the knees and shaky. "You mean to give me _how_ much for the patent?"

"Six thousand pounds," said the Director of Botany. "Miss Niima, ought you to sit down?"

"Yes, please," she gasped, and sat quickly, feeling faint. Six _thousand_ pounds: an astronomical sum, enough to keep her for the rest of her life in comfort. "And the—the research?"

The Director looked down again. "The research shall be sent to every pharmacy in London at once, and the receipt you have patented for the medicine derived from this leaf—which you have named…erm, _Kyoloauribus hydrophillaceae_ —it will be sold to them. You shall receive eighty per cent of the profit every month, including any derivative medicines made from the plant itself. The only harvesting of the plant itself will be carried out by the Department of Botany of Oxford College, as you have demanded, since the plant cannot grow anywhere beside its native land, and you may head up the industry of it all if you like—or name anyone else you desire as the head of the works, as your proxy. Oh, and there is the matter of your honorary doctorate: we shall have a ceremony as soon as can be arranged."

 _I own a monopoly. I may just be the wealthiest_ _O-woman in Britain, apart from the Queen._ Rey's head spun, and then she looked at the Board: every face looked just as greedy for the profit as Ama Yaa had said they would be. She, Miss Rey Niima, had discovered something that would change the world beyond all her wildest dreams, yet she suddenly longed for the village, where all the world had seemed so much better. She could not, however, return there: she had other plans. "Director," she said politely, "under any other circumstance I should head up the expeditions and the harvesting of the plant myself, in order to ensure that no harm might come to the land or the people, but unfortunately, I have other plans in place."

"Other plans?" asked the Director of Horticultural Science. Dr. Phasma tilted her head with a small, interested expression on her face, watching.

"Yes," said Rey. "I have, in fact, received an offer of marriage from the Earl of Stokeclere, and I mean to accept it. But I shan't bore you fine gentlemen with all that: no—I would like to name a head of the expeditions, you see. I want them to have complete control over the process, and a fifty per cent cut of all the profits made by initial sales of the leaf to the companies: that portion may be removed from mine. And I should like to choose this head from among you."

There was nearly an audible sigh around the table: such a sum would make a man rich before Christmas! "Oh?" asked the Bishop, eyes glinting. "Then this person—it must be someone you trust greatly, Miss Niima?"

"Oh, undoubtedly," said Rey, with a very straight face. "Someone who I can know for certain is in my corner, no matter what; someone who is trustworthy and honest and knows their way about their business; someone who shall run things properly."

"Well," said the Director of Botany, looking as if he was going to begin preening any moment, "I—"

"Doctor Phasma," interrupted Rey, turning to face the good woman. "I should be delighted if you were to take me up on my offer."

Gwendoline Phasma's face blanched and her mouth dropped open in delighted shock. "Me?"

Rey smiled. "Yes, you, if you please: and I should like the Director of Horticultural Sciences to back you up on all things related in his field. He shall be salaried for it, in fact, and the College will pay it."

"Miss Niima—" said the Director of Botany, purpling with consternation. "I really must protest—"

"You really must not, or you shall not get my patent," she said, and the gentleman fell quite silent. "Now, seeing as we have an accord: where ought I to collect my cheque for the six thousand pounds?"

"The financial office," said the Director of Horticultural Sciences, beaming from ear to ear. "And if they don't write it out, I shall box their ears."

"Thank you, sir," Rey said, smiling at him. "Don’t allow the stuff to become over-harvested, and  _don't_ let anyone harass the Ashanti, either, or I shall box yours."

Phasma laughed aloud. "I'll take care of that. Good day, Miss Niima, and thank you."

"But—the honorary doctorate—" The Director of Botany looked stricken.

"Send it to Stokeclere, if you please, sir. I have a train to catch as soon as I can, and I shouldn't wish to cause any more trouble for you." Rey curtsied politely. "I wish you all a very good day."

*

Finlay met her at the station in Hampshire, smiling broadly and dressed very well, in a silk tie and new hat. "Miss Niima!" he said, and took her hand to help her down. "How was the journey?"

"Oh, exhausting, thank you." Rey turned to instruct the porters as to the handling of her things: she had taken the liberty of cashing the cheque immediately and spending a tiny portion of it on a new trousseau, which she thought might be appropriate anyway. She had never even seen so much money in her life, and all the left-over notes were stuffed into her bulging reticule: she'd been half-afraid she'd be robbed on the train. "How is he?"

"Lord Stokeclere is very well, and asks if you've written a letter every day," Finlay said, walking alongside her. "I myself am settling in fairly well."

"That is marvelous to hear— _oh!_ " Rey gasped. There on the platform, far ahead, was a familiar silhouette: golden skin, dark hair under a hat, a fine handsome profile. "Mr. Dameron!" she cried. He turned at the sound, and seeing her, broke into a run, waving his hat.

"Little Miss Niima!" he cried, catching her up in an embrace. "Who would have thought we'd be on the same train?"

"Oh, how lovely it is to see you! Oh—this is Finlay, he came with us from Africa—he is from Nigeria, and is a wonderful asset to—"

Dameron turned and smiled at Finlay, who regarded him with some wariness, then Dameron asked him a question in fluent Yoruba, syllables rising and falling, deep and round. " _Kini orukọ otitọ rẹ, ọrẹ mi?"_

Finlay's face changed instantly to rapt surprise as he responded, " _Orukọ mi ni_ _Igitioluwotilaiye, ṣugbọn wọn pe mi Finlay tabi Finn._ "

 _"Igitioluwotilaiye_." Dameron repeated it flawlessly, and Finlay beamed. "Very good," said Dameron in English, "we shall get on well. This is all I brought—" he indicated his case— "so I shouldn't think I'll be too much of a bother."

"Not at all," said Finlay. "We had a guest room made ready when Miss Niima wrote saying you would come. I'm sort of the butler and the valet all in one."

"Oh, goodness, I nearly forgot to ask—what's being done about staff?" Rey walked off between the two men, back to the waiting carriage.

"Oh, don't you worry about that, Miss Niima. We had more people showing up to ask to work than I've ever seen in my life." Finlay sighed. "Big celebrity, Ben is—sorry, Lord Stokeclere, I mean. Everyone for miles around wants to say they work in the house. Had to chase off reporters and everything. But I did find a good cook, a kitchen maid, a gardener or two, stablehands, three housemaids—still looking through the butler and valet applications, but maybe you want to—"

"I will go through them, yes."

"And I know you'll want a lady's maid and so on, but I figured you'd want to handle that yourself, too." Finlay helped her up into the cart and Dameron helpfully put her luggage in the back, then climbed up next to Finlay on the driver's seat. "Ah, you like the front, Mr. Dameron?"

"I do," he said, smiling, "and it wouldn't be proper sitting in the back, seeing as I hear the lady is now engaged to be married."

"That it would not be," said Rey, grinning from ear to ear, and they took off toward Stokeclere.

*

Rey did not know what she had been expecting. Perhaps a shambling ruin of a house, half rotted, fire-burnt, covered with vines and leaves—perhaps a small crumble-down, tumble-down building of brick? Whatever she had expected, it was nothing compared to the enormous house that met her sight as they crested the last hill and started down the gravel drive toward Stokeclere House.

Three massive stories high, softly cream-colored stone: square towers at every corner of the square building and a tower in the center: it was a masterpiece of Jacobean Revival architecture. She tried not to look very impressed, but could not help it, and anyway Dameron was almost hanging out of the carriage with his mouth open. "Good Lord," she said.

"It's not so big once you're used to it," Finlay reassured her. "It was in decent condition, anyway. Did Ben tell you about the grandparents?"

"The—what? No." Rey leaned forward, interested.

"Ah, well. According to Mr. Richard Robertson—that's their solicitor, and his Lordship's now, too, a funny little fellow, you'll like him—it seems two and a half years after Ben was born in Cape Town to Lady Leah and the good Captain, they got a letter saying that the lady's parents had sadly died, but had left her and her son all they had, including the title and the house and the land; she had had a brother, but he ran off to join a holy order. They were the old Earl and Countess of Stokeclere, you see. She had run off to marry the Captain, whom she met in Africa on some tour with a missionary party… anyway, they came home at once, but sadly shipwrecked off the coast, and here we are today." Finlay waves a hand at the house, clicking his tongue at the horse. "It was being kept up by the old housekeeper, but then she died not very long ago."

"I'm sorry to hear it," said Rey, and felt very badly indeed for the pretty young woman in the faded tintype, with the laughing mouth and the dark eyes. How sad, that she would never know her son. 

They circled round and drew up to the front door, disembarking off the carriage. A few stablehands came up to handle the horse and carriage, tugging at their forelocks and bowing at Rey, and she felt rather odd about it, but marched on inside anyway. "I hear it's custom for the household to greet a lady, but we barely have a household, eh?" Finlay said cheerfully. "Not to worry, we shall get there."

The interior was warmly lit, cool and pleasant. She sighed in relief and took her hat off, setting it herself on a table. "Oh, it's lovely," she said, looking around. "But where's Lord Stokeclere got to?"

"Ah, that," said Finlay, grinning. "He…" A quick look over at Dameron, who was inspecting a painting on the wall and wholly oblivious, and Finlay leaned in closer. "He said he wanted you to find him."

"Oh, did he, now?" Rey said with some embarrassment. "I ought to go and do that, then: thank you. Will you make sure my things are put away?"

"Of course." Finlay called out for the maids, who appeared like ghosts out of thin air to take her things. Rey hardly noticed them as she looked about and found the staircase: there would be time later to get their names straight and greet them. For now, she had another task at hand.

*

The house was truly a maze. She'd made it to the second floor, and wandered up and down the corridors quietly, listening carefully for any noise that might belie Benjamin's location. There was nothing, but she could scent him well enough: warm and sweet, burnt vanilla, tobacco, chocolate. Oh, how she had missed it! She followed her nose and her instinct, undoing the buttons at the throat of her shirtwaist to let her own scent mark her spot: two could play at this game. "Benjamin," she called softly, peering into empty rooms. "Where have you got to?"

There was a closed door round the corner, and she halted in front of it, eyes shut as the delicious scent of him filled her nose, her mouth, her senses. She did not fight it this time, and reveled in the way her body responded: mouth watering, throat tightening, the sensations of swelling and wetting somewhere beneath her skirts. Too many skirts, really: she ought to get rid of them. She raised her hand and pushed on the door, and it opened silently on its freshly-oiled hinges.

The room was dim, the curtains nearly pulled to, decorated in dark greens and golds—the colors of the jungle he missed so dearly, she realized as she walked through. The bed was large, hung with drapes, and as she passed it, she heard the sound.

Chirping, tender and soft. _Is it you?_ it seemed to say. _Are you here?_

"Benjamin," she whispered, and shut her eyes. He was in the room, then: hiding himself. Her fingers fumbled with her clothing, and she took off her travelling coat, then her belt: dropping them to the floor. It did not matter, nothing mattered now: she was here, and he was here with her. Off came the heavy skirt, off came the shirtwaist: she was standing in her chemise and corset now.

Another sound, this one seeming to come from the corner of the room: gentle, purring coos, delicate and inquisitive, trilling on a tongue. They sent a shiver up Rey's spine. She wanted to seek him out, but she waited, waited patiently until her thighs were damp with slick, and then she rubbed her legs together and took off the corset.

A throaty sound, from the other corner, and suddenly he was _there_ : broad hot chest pressed to her slender back, mouth seeking her throat as he rubbed his cheek against her hair. "Rey," he whispered.

"I came to you," she whispered.

"You did," he replied, one hand making its way up her body, cupping at her breast. "I want to look at you."

She turned quickly and took her chemise off, letting it drop to the floor and revealing her nude body in the dim light. He stared, drinking her in, and she took her hair down, letting it fall in a cascade of dark waves to her lower back. "Like this?" she asked, stepping out of her shoes.

He looked…the same, but somehow different. He had decided to keep his face free of beard or moustache, it seemed, but his hair had grown out over his ears again, and she felt that might be vanity more than anything else: he looked very fine, without his shirt and in only his trousers. He also stood straighter, and moved with more sureness. "You…" Benjamin reached out, looking as if she'd given him a gift beyond all—

Wait. Gift. The _gift—_

"Benjamin," she stammered, as he knelt to nuzzle at her breasts, licking and sucking, "I—I have to tell you something—"

"If it's that Dameron is here, I know already," he said, pausing from his attentions to speak. "I smelled him the moment he walked through the door."

"No, it's not—well, that too, but— _oh_ —" She bit her lip: the last week had brought a startling array of symptoms she had not prepared for, one being increased tenderness in her breasts—which themselves had increased quite a bit. "Benjamin—" His teeth closed on her left nipple, as delicate and as painful as a razor's edge, and she cried out in pain, shoving his head away. "Stop! Just—a moment, oh, _ouch_ —"

Benjamin tumbled to his haunches and stared up at her from the floor. "Rey?" He looked shocked, somewhat hurt, confused. "Did I hurt you?"

"Yes, you—oh, God," she hissed, cupping her breast. "It's so dark—just—hold on." She crossed to the curtains and pulled them open a bit more, then turned.

His eyes were fixed on her chest. She could nearly see the wheels turning behind his dark eyes as he worked out what he saw: darker nipples, fuller breasts, a slightly rounder lower belly (the smallest, _smallest_ bit rounder) and her flushed face. "Rey," he said again, still on the floor. "You—you're—"

"I'm with child," she managed, trembling.

He did not move from his spot, just staring up at her as his expression changed from hurt to— _of all things_ —mute adoration. "You—you're—" he gasped. "When?"

She took in a breath. "Early December. I think. You're not—angry?"

"Why would I be angry?" He beamed, and his face transformed into boyish glee, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. "How—how long have you known?"

"I'm—it's only about nine or ten weeks along. I've just been feeling dreadfully unlike myself for the past week: it all started at once and I've been getting ill in the mornings and my breasts hurt awfully—"

"I'm sorry," he said at once. "Are you—are you happy?"

"I—" She swallowed. "I don't know how to feel at all," she managed, sounding very small. "I'm only nineteen—no, wait, I'm twenty: my birthday was last week and I forgot it entirely. I don't know anything about children at all. I don't—I wouldn't—"

"Finn says that's what nurses are for," Benjamin told her. "And governesses, and maids."

"But I _want_ to know about them," she explained desperately. "I would rather be informed, you know, than just—thrust into this—"

"Rey," he said, gentle and firm. "Come here."

She went stepping naked across the floor and knelt down, letting him wrap a big arm around her shoulders. "I'm being silly," she stammered. "I know I am."

"You're afraid. It's natural." He kissed the shell of her ear. "Give your worrying to me. I can hold it for you. Will you let me?"

She inhaled his scent, rich and warm. "Yes," she whispered.

"Good. Now you must show me how not to hurt you." He kissed her neck, grunting deep in his throat, and she squirmed, fighting the response of her body to his touch.

"Won't it hurt the—the baby—"

"No," he said softly, air drifting across her throat. "I know that. I know about babies. It's so small it can't feel a thing. Just here." His big hand came down, hovering just above her belly. "It's safe and warm," he whispered, and some instinct deep inside her said he was right. "Here. Between these," and he pressed lightly on her hip-bones, delicate and pointed in the golden afternoon light streaming through the curtains. "The first cradle is you."

"You certainly became eloquent while I've been away," she whispered, turning her face into his neck.

"I've been reading a lot," he told her, and lifted her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing, carrying her to the bed and laying her down with all the gentleness in the world before taking off his trousers and drawers.

"I'm not supposed to do anything strenuous," she said, giving him a rueful smile.

"Then you won't. I'll do it all for you," Benjamin said, lying down next to her, his chest to her back. "Like this." He was already hard, his flesh pressed to the small of her back, and she shuddered, fighting a moan at the promise of what was to come. "I'll be careful," he murmured, touching gently between her legs. "Oh. You're swollen up down here, a little bit."

"A little bit," Rey whispered, shutting her eyes as his blunt fingers traced her, opened her carefully, dipped in and spread her slick around. Little tingles moved from the cradle of her pelvis all the way to her knees, and she bit her lip, trying to ready herself.

"You're tighter," he said softly, withdrawing his fingers and pressing himself to her. "You know, I smelled you that day, by the river. I thought you smelled different… I'll be slow. I know how. It's all right—"

"Ohhhhh," Rey whimpered as he gently, slowly split her open, speared on him wide. "Oh, _God_ —"

"Easy," he said, voice trembling slightly. "Oh, _Rey_. I missed you." His hips began to roll, a slow cadence that sent her gasping under his curled right arm. "You said once—you wanted me—to _talk_ ," he stammered, not losing a second of rhythm. "Do you want me to—talk—now—?"

"B—Ben," she gasped, unable to do anything but hold on for dear life. His free hand found her thigh and lifted it, and the angle made her almost scream out, but she muffled it with her own hand, shaking around him. He didn't stop, just kept moving inexorably until she was coming apart at the seams, shaking and crying out and cresting her peak into glorious oblivion, and only then did he allow himself to finish.

His knot sealed them together and he whimpered in his throat as he held her close, spilling and spilling as if he couldn't stop. "Rey," he gasped, one hand pressed to her belly. "A child. Our child."

"We'll have to get married as soon as we can be," she managed, when she had found her voice again. "We can pretend it’s born a bit early. That's all right."

"Yes," he said, relaxing at last and nosing into her hair. "Sometimes they do come early."

"How do you know about babies so much?" she demanded, turning her head slightly.

He chuckled. "I lived in the jungle. You think I didn't see babies in the village being born?"

"Oh," said Rey, shutting her eyes. "You might have to help me through it when the time comes, then. English men don't generally care to know any details at all about childbirth, and leave it to women; I should rather die than you leave me alone with a midwife."

"Fortunately," said Benjamin, kissing the back of her neck, "I am not _that_ much of an Englishman."

"No, you are not. Oh, Lord. I've left Dameron all alone in the foyer." She moved slightly, but found herself quite unable to get out of bed, owing to the copulatory tie and to the fact that Ben's arms were very strong and heavy about her. "Can't you… I don't know, think about something dreadful and let me go a bit sooner?"

He laughed rather lazily. "That's not quite how it works," he told her. "Lie down and don't worry about Dameron. Lie down with me. Shh."

Rey gave up and rested against his chest, sleepy and sated. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. I'm sending Doctor Phasma to the Gold Coast for the scent-herb. I'm rich now, and the College is making me an honorary Doctor. Not that it matters. But I suppose I'm as academically fulfilled as I ever wanted to be."

Ben kissed her on the spot below her ear, just at her jaw. "I'm very proud."

"I had to name the plant, too," she said, feeling slightly wicked. "Would you like to know what I called it?"

"What?" he asked, tracing her shoulder gently with his big fingers.

 _"Kyoloauribus hydrophillaceae"_ she said. "Have you any Latin?"

"Finn tried to teach me, but no. Do I hear my old name there?" He laved his tongue gently along her shoulder, licking and sucking soft and wet.

"You do. Well, the second part—hydrophillaceae, that means it's in the water-lily family, which I classified it as being. The first part, because the papers all keep calling you Kyo-lo, and I thought it was silly—but the third bit—"

" _Auribus_ ," he said, nibbling lightly.

"Yes. That means, erm. Ears." Rey pressed her lips together to fight from grinning.

"You named the scent-herb after my _ears_?" Benjamin said, feigning outrage, and nibbled ferociously at her shoulder, playing at roughness and making her squeal.

"Mercy," Rey spluttered, giggling. "I did want to ask—if it isn't too private, I mean—"

"I am sure it won't be." Ben resumed his trail of kisses.

"When you… well, you see, Ama Yaa said that men like you will go into—into—" She could barely say the word, even with the man wedged inside her still, how perfectly ridiculous. "— _rut,_ when they're around their—that is, if their wives are like me. So, if we live together, I wonder, will you—will you still enter it, even if I—when I—"

"When you're pregnant, you mean," he finished for her, and thought for a moment. "Most likely. Unless—do women like you stop giving scent when they're with child?"

"You're a better judge of that then me, I think," she said.

"You smell different now," he told her, leaning down to sniff gently about her collarbones. His hair tickled her neck as he bent. "Perhaps your scent changes and goes back when you have the child."

"That would make sense. How do I smell differently?" Rey twisted her head about to look at him.

Ben inhaled and frowned. "You used to be like…flowers and honey and… grass. Clean water. Sweet and earthy and good. This is more like… milk? It's fresher, cleaner. Not as sweet. More like—I don't know. Rain? It's hard to say."

"I suppose we shall find out, then," she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "A scientific experiment of quite a different sort, I imagine."

"You'll be all right," he said, nuzzling down against her neck again. "You're with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Six thousand pounds around the turn of the century is equivalent to about 750,000 pounds today--about $950,000.  
> -If you can find the R2D2 reference, you get a gold star.


	13. Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains childbirth! Heads up and CW for that.

Miss Rey Niima wed Benjamin Solo, Lord Stokeclere, two days after in the parish church, and the whole village turned out to watch, along with quite a few reporters who had got wind somehow of the event and were determined to write down every detail they could.

The bride wore a sensible cream silk dress and a hat decked with flowers from the garden: the groom wore a morning coat and looked every inch the respectable English lord he was born to be. The ceremony was quick and the couple retreated as man and wife back to the great house to hold a wedding breakfast for their friends and most of the village, a great turnout made much cheerier by the amounts of brandy and fine liquor. There was not to be a honeymoon, but the bride changed anyway, into a hunter-green ensemble, and by all accounts his Lordship could not take his eyes away from her all afternoon.

Of course, it was a rather shocking match, anyway: who ever heard of an **A** _marrying_ an **Ω** , even in this day and age? But they seemed quite composed and happy together, perfectly at ease, so the reporters all went away without a speck of scandal to flavor their articles the next morning. Some even postulated that perhaps the stories had been wrong: that the wild man had really only been a **B** after all, that he was not even as wild as they had all thought, that perhaps he had not even been found in Africa, but in Portugal, or in Cape Town.

Thereafter, most of the rumors all died down, and Lady and Lord Stokeclere were given enough space and good nature to prepare for the changes that would soon come to their life.

*

"Oh, _God,_ " groaned Rey, flat on her back in bed. The snow outside was falling, falling thickly and in drifts, but her room was warm and well-lit with the fire roaring. It would have been a peaceful scene, had there not been three maids, a nurse, a midwife, and the doctor from the village all clustered about and shouting different commands at her as yet another contraction seized her in its viselike grip.

Where on _earth_ was Ben? He has promised to come, but his train from London was late. Delayed. Probably the weather. Rey gritted her teeth as the contraction eased, and turned her head away from the window to find her lady's maid, Rose, and her housemaid, Kaydel, anxiously sitting at her side. "Lord Stokeclere," she managed, as Rose wet a cloth and patted her head. "Any news?"

"No, my lady, I am so sorry," Kaydel said.

Rey yelped as the doctor's hands invaded under her nightgown, feeling as if they were the size of a cricket bat. "Still not effaced," he proclaimed, "nothing yet."

It was so hot. She had been caught by her labor on the stairs last night, her waters breaking and flooding her nightgown, and the thing clung to her with sweat, nearly transparent by now, stuck to her breasts and her enormous belly. "I want to sit up," she panted, struggling to do so. It felt like it had been an eternity of labor already, though it couldn't have been more than twelve hours.

The doctor shook his head patronizingly. "You must lie back, my lady; I need to see the cervix—"

"I said I want to sit up!" she shouted, and threw off his hands, raising herself up on one side. Breathing was so _hard:_ the baby was presenting correctly, but her lungs couldn't expand enough to catch a full breath, and she loathed it, loathed every second of it—where the _hell_ was her husband?

The midwife, a woman with arms like Christmas hams, turned on the doctor. "She en't open enough yet—let her sit as she pleases."

"I am a medical professional: her welfare is my concern—"

"She's a blooming O! She won't have no problems—"

Another contraction, this one severe, and Rey wailed, gritting her teeth and going red in the face as ripples of pain coursed through her from chest to belly. "I want my _husband_!" she demanded, when she could talk again.

"In the event his Lordship arrives," said the doctor, trying to sound calm, "he shall wait outside."

"No," she ground out, trying to breathe evenly. "No, he promised—"

"M'lady, don't you want to be nice and cleaned up when 'is Lordship comes and sees the little 'un?" The midwife patted her thigh as one might pat a cow, and Rey wanted to slap her. "Y'don't want 'him to see you all a mess, like—"

"I," Rey gasped, steeling herself for the next contraction, "do not bloody _care_ what his Lordship sees— _oh—_ " Another one, long and steady, her belly tightening with the force of it, and a peculiar sensation somewhere below, as if something had dropped slightly. The urge to push was abominably strong. "Oh, _God_ —"

"Easy," said the doctor, and peered between her thighs again, jamming his awful hand in to feel. "No head presenting yet; my lady. Seven centimeters—"

The door burst open, and the maids shrieked in terror, leaping away from the door. Rey gasped for air, and smelled him: warm, rich, sweet and burnt. He was _here._ "I came quick as I could," Ben said shortly, yanking off his snow-dusted coat and hat and throwing them with abandon to the side. "Rey—" His dark eyes found her, and took it all in: the doctor with his hand up her nightgown, the midwife, the maids, the nurse.

"Help me," Rey begged, hand out in supplication. " _Ben_ —" His nostrils flared, his eyes darkening, and he strode to her side at once.

The doctor looked shocked.  "Sir, you really ought to—" Ben turned on him.

"You will remove your person from the room, Doctor. Now."

"I really must—"

"I said out. All of you. _Now_." His voice dropped into low and final tones, and the doctor cringed a little, but nodded and wiped his hands before stepping back, shrugging helplessly. He could not help it, after all: he was only a **B**.

"Ben," Rey gasped, striving to sit up as the maids scurried out of the room and Ben took off his jacket, his waistcoat: rolled his shirt up to the elbows and marched to the windows. One firm yank, and they opened, wintry air drifting across her sweating body. She shut her eyes in relief. "Thank God."

He turned back on her, and looked over her again: something stirred in his eyes and he began to yank the towels and blankets off the bed, the sheets, making a thick nest on the floor at the foot of it. Rey watched, too fascinated momentarily to worry about the next contraction.

Ben circled the floor and sat down by her. "Sit up," he said gently, and she did, clinging to him and panting. "Come along, sweetheart. You can walk about if you like."

She swung her legs out and heaved herself out of bed, but another contraction struck her, and she clung to his shoulders, standing and shaking as it took her and passed again. It was easier, having him there: a comfort. She was safe. He smelled like home. "They said—no head. Yet."

"Good," he said. "I came at the right time. Walk over here." He guided her over to the nest on the floor and peeled her nightgown off, sticky and damp, flinging it away.

"I think something—moved—" Rey caught her breath again and groaned, clinging to the footboard and squatting. "Can you—reach up and—"

"Yes, of course," he said softly, and gently probed between her thighs, feeling it out. "Ah, you're opening. Good. And I think…" His fingers swept across, and he smiled. "The head."

"It's down? Engaged, you mean?" Rey steeled herself, panicking slightly. "I feel like I should push. Should I?"

"Not yet. We're not as far as we need to be yet." Ben withdrew his hand and stroked her shoulder gently. "You've done well."

"I couldn't bloody sit up," she panted. "They wouldn't let me—"

"I'm here now. You do as you please. If anyone comes in I'll beat them senseless." And he meant it, too: some undefinable tone in his voice meant business. Rey's body relaxed slightly, instinctively, something in her brain telling her _all is well, you are protected and safe._

"You won't let them touch me again, will you?" she asked, drawing another breath.

"No," he told her, and held her fee hand while she groaned her way through another contraction. "Easy, easy. Good. You're so very beautiful, my darling."

"Beautiful," she scoffed, when it was over. "I'm the size of a steamer and I'm sweating like a pig."

"No," he said, taking up the wet cloth and wiping her brow. "No. You're beautiful. Every day… every day, I would look at you, and I would think about how lovely my wife is, to let me change her body into something so full of life, to bear our child—"

Rey put her head into the crook of his neck and sniffled. "You think so? Really?"

"Haven't I told you so?" Ben rubbed her back, his huge hands working out the knots in the muscle. "I wanted to keep you all to myself. Make a nest for you in the bedroom, take care of you—"

"You're taking care of me now," she gasped, seizing his hands as another contraction came on. "Oh, _God_ , Jesus _Christ_ —"

He reached down when it was over and gently felt again, then gave her a smile. "Head's crowning, Rey. You must do as I say. I will count to ten, and you push, then stop when I hit ten. And you can scream all you like. All right?"

"Yes," Rey whimpered, terrified. "It _hurts_ —"

"Don't be afraid. The hard part is over. Now. Push." Ben cupped his hand between her thighs, and she allowed the instinct to take over, bearing down as hard as she could with a scream. Centimeter by centimeter, the _head_ was coming out of her, and she stopped as Ben had told her to, looking down in terror. Something felt as if it was protruding, but she couldn't be sure.

"Is that—"

"Yes," he said, his blood-stained hand cupping the curve of the head. "Now. Short, little breaths. Pant for me for a moment, and we'll do it all again."

She did as he said, panting and blowing like a horse, and pushed with all her might as he counted for her again. The entire head emerged, snugly between her legs. She couldn't see it past the swell of her belly, but she could certainly feel it.

"Next push will be the shoulder," Ben said. "Pant again, sweetheart. Good." She sucked in short little breaths and pushed hard once more as he counted, then cried out as a shoulder emerged. "Good. Rey, you're doing so well. Pant again for me." His free hand was stroking her back, slow and firm, and she felt suddenly she could do anything, anything at all if she wanted: tear down Stokeclere from its foundations with her bare hands. "You're so much stronger than you know," he murmured, seeming to sense her thoughts. "Now, another push. You can do it."

Rey shut her eyes and bore down, groaning like an animal as the other shoulder emerged, and caught her breath, struggling not to push as the instinct overtook her. "Ben—"

"Push all you like now, darling," he whispered, and with one final cry from Rey's throat, the baby came slithering out into Ben's hands, slippery as a fish and covered in vernix and a little blood. Ben held it up quickly and wrapped it in a linen towel, and Rey heard a loud, indignant wail from the little thing. She bent, exhausted, to lean up against the footboard, and Ben put the infant on her chest, spreading his wide hand out to hold it steady. "It's a girl," he said softly, his eyes large and liquid. "Rey—"

"A girl," she gasped, reaching up with shaking hands to carefully cup the baby, whose tiny fist was planted on her breast and whose crumpled red face stained with white vernix resembled nothing so much as a very ugly old man. "A _daughter_ —oh, Ben—"

He beamed and kissed her on the forehead, then tenderly stroked the infant through the cloth and began to make gentle noises. Hooting, cooing, rumbling little trills, and the baby stilled her cries of anger at being brought into the world and opened her eyes.

Rey stared down into them. Slate-blue, slightly slanted, like Ben's; a triangular, soft mouth; a tiny nose. Something inside her shifted, and suddenly she did not care that she was naked on the floor of her bedroom, or that her body ached, or that she was dreadfully thirsty. All her thoughts went to the infant on her chest, and she knew suddenly that she loved her, and should anyone try to interfere with the bond between mother and child, they would regret it most dearly. "Should I—try to feed her?" she asked, slightly dazed.

"Not yet. She will eat when she is hungry." Ben looked down between her legs again. "Ah—you hold her there."

"What is it?" Rey could not see at all.

"Only the afterbirth," he said, and she felt a warm gush, then the urge to push took her again. She pushed, and something wet and warm slithered out. Ben did something quickly between her thighs and wiped her legs clean, then picked up the shears that someone had left on the table, severing the cord and tying it off with a bit of string. "And there we are, Lady Stokeclere," he said, coming to sit by her again.

"I ought to—the house will want to see her—" Rey struggled to sit up, clutching the baby to her chest, but Ben clicked his tongue.

"They can see her when you are ready," he said. "Are you hungry?"

"Thirsty," she admitted. "But the doctor said I oughtn't to—"

"Damn the doctor," said Ben, getting up and striding to the pitcher on the washstand. "Here." He gave her a glass, and she drank it with shaking hands, trying not to spill any on the baby, who had seemed to settle down in her new environment and was smacking her little mouth.

"I ought to get a bath," Rey said, setting the glass aside.

"I'll help you." Ben had become a creature of attentive instinct, eyes taking in everything and moving as quickly as possible. He took the baby while Rey got to her feet, he helped her into the bathroom, he sat her down on a stool and handed the baby back to her, and he washed her clean with his own hands, rinsing away all the blood and sweat. He even pressed one hand into her still-swollen belly, kneading gently to help her insides contract and reduce a little, and by the time he was done she felt very much ready to take on the world—or at least, the walk back to the bed.

On went a clean nightgown. Ben combed all her hair, and helped her back into the bed, plumping up her pillows and handing her the baby, wrapped in a swaddling-cloth (Rey had insisted on doing that herself). "We ought to name her before they all come in," she said, looking down.

"Yes, we ought to. Didn't we think perhaps Leah, after my mother?" Ben sat on the bed beside her.

"We did. But I think… Hannah." She looked up. "Do you like it?"

"Hannah," he echoed, as if tasting it. "I do. Why have you chosen it?"

"It means…it means _gift_ ," she said, smiling. "Because she is my gift to you, and your gift to me."

"Gift," he said softly. "Yes. I think that will do nicely. Hannah Victoria, perhaps, after the Queen?"

Rey chuckled. "Truly the most distinguished O-woman the world has ever seen. My God, if we had that many children, I shouldn't know what to do with myself."

"You would be a fine mother to one child or to ten." Ben kissed her on the mouth. "Hannah Victoria Leah Solo, then. Is that a good name?"

"It is a good name," she agreed. "Well, bring in the cavalry and let's let them all take a look at the new lady of the house."

"I love you very much," he said softly, and took her hand, squeezing it, before going to the door and throwing it wide to announce the arrival of the newest member of the household to the rest of them, and Rey held her daughter in her arms and silently promised her that she would be loved, and safe, and _never_ sent away to any awful boarding-school as long as she lived; for little Hannah had a mother and a father as neither of her parents had—

"Oh, my lady!" gasped Rose as she drew near, beaming, Kaydel in tow. "A girl? She's just the smallest, most perfect little thing!"

"Come and see," said Rey, smiling, "she shan't bite you. Aren't her eyes the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

*

Benjamin Solo stood at a respectful distance between the door and the bed, keeping an eye on the proceedings. He knew very well that protocol dictated the household be allowed in to have a look at the baby, but some instinct he was fighting wailed that he wanted more time alone, just he and his wife and their daughter. _It will come later,_ he assured himself. They could pretend to shut out the world, and curl up on the bed: he and Rey and little Hannah between them.

He had never longed for the jungle so much as he did now. He missed the peace of it: the susurration of the leaves in the wind at night, the rippling water, the moon overhead—but he would not trade this, he thought, looking at his child in his wife's arms, he would not trade it for anything.

Ben had a _family_ now: he would never be cast out again, and that was more than anything he could ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are DONE. A few notes!  
> -I never specified what precisely Poe was, designation-wise. Make of that what ye will.   
> -Finlay totally found them a new butler and made quick work of establishing himself on the estate as a particular friend of Ben's and a "confirmed bachelor" who often enjoys long visits to stay with his [cough] friend [cough] Poe Dameron in London. I definitely wanted to get into that more, along with Rose and Kaydel's characterization, but in the end I had another project to start working on so I had to cut it for the sake of my sanity.  
> -I do hope you all enjoyed this. It was my first ever foray into ABO fic and I hope I did it justice.


End file.
